


Poetic Series I thru XVIII

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: See story individual parts.





	Poetic Series I thru XVIII

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Change One Little Word... by Scribe

Title: Change One Little Word...  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: Finished. Entry in the Slashing Mulder first anniversary contest, weather division. Also part of the `Poetic' series.  
Criticism: Yes   
Archive: Yes. Let me know where.  
Feedback:   
Disclaimer: Krycek, Scully, and Mulder belong to Chris Carter. I just borrow them.  
Summary: My take on Mulder and Krycek's real first meeting, before `Sleepless'.  
Notes: This story occurs long before `Little Cat Feet' and `Summer Redundant'.  
Rating: R. Hey, I AM capable of less than NC-17!  
Note: Don't shoot me. I didn't see the episode where Mulder and Krycek met, and the synopsis available on the web wasn't all THAT detailed and textured. Here's my take on it. Consider this AU. Part of the `Poetic' series. It occurs long before `Little Cat Feet' or `Summer Redundant'.

* * *

Change One Little Word...  
By Scribe

One Misty, Moisty Morning  
A Nursery Rhyme

One misty, moisty morning,  
When cloudy was the weather,  
I chanced to meet an old man  
Clothed all in leather.  
He began to compliment,  
And I began to grin,  
How do you do?  
And how do you do?  
And how do you do, again?

*Mulder, you're being childish.* Fox Mulder stood in front of his apartment window, clad only in his boxer shorts, leaning his forehead against the pane. He wasn't worried about being seen. The streets outside were deserted, and he was enjoying the chill of the glass.

Again the thought drifted across his mind. *You're being childish.* How many times had that statement been directed at him? By his father, fairly often. By his mother, less frequently, and usually with a gentle smile. By his partner... Mulder grimaced. *Ex partner. Just get where you can trust someone, and The Powers That Be, in their infinite wisdom, decide it's better for you to split up.* By Dana Scully, more than once.

But he'd never directed the thought at HIMSELF. Not till today. What was it?

Closing the X Files, being cut adrift from Scully...yeah. Those were the obvious things. Nothing like a big dollop of insecurity to make you feel...well, not childISH. ChildLIKE. Vulnerable.

He sighed. His forehead and hair were getting damp. It was cold outside, warm in his apartment. Water was condensing on the glass, dribbling down. He'd have to do something about that, or the wood on the sill would end up with damp rot. But that just seemed far too adult and responsible a thing to be worrying about on a morning like today.

Not removing his forehead from the window, he idly touched a small drop near the top of the pane, drawing it down till it touched another, and merged. With that added weight, gravity proved too much for it, and it started down the glass. It gathered bulk and momentum as it made it's way down, and seemed the size of a raisin by the time it splashed over the window sash.

It wasn't raining outside yet, but it would be at any moment. It was overcast, with not a speck of open sky in view. The clouds were almost purple, but Mulder suspected that was more from the lingering darkness of night than violence of temperament. It was still very early, just barely past dawn by his calculations. Not that there was any sun on display. It looked like twilight outside, and probably wouldn't get much brighter all day. These early spring days could be just as nasty as anything deepest autumn threw at you.

It reminded him of a poem. Almost everything reminded him of a poem, these days. He seemed to have retained almost every one he'd run across since his mother had propped him on her lap and opened that first book of Mother Goose. There were a lot of poems about rain, for adults and children, but it was the nursery rhyme that came to Mulder today, for some reason.

He recited softly to himself. "One misty, moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, I chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather. He began to compliment, and I began to grin. How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do again?"

Mulder smiled slightly, despite his depression. He'd loved that poem. His father, hearing him recite it once, had pointed out that there was no such word as `moisty', and Mulder had replied that there SHOULD be.

The FBI agent sighed gustily, watching his breath fog on the glass, adding to the moisture. With his fingertip, he sketched a heart in the grey film, complete with arrow. Inside it, he wrote `FM + `, and his hand paused. *Plus WHO?*

Not Scully. He cared about her, and was coming to care for her more deeply with every day that passed. But it wasn't the kind of love you scrawled in a valentine. And there weren't any other even REMOTE possibilities. With a grimace, he scrubbed his palm across the glass. It would be streaked when it dried, but the mocking image of the half empty heart was gone.

He moved away from the window, and began pacing. He went and stared for a moment at his rumpled bed. The empty space held no attraction for him whatsoever. He had a day off today, before starting back to work. Figured the insomnia would decide to kick back in at one of the few times he could have slept as late as he wanted.

He found himself pacing again.

*Damn. Haven't even been up an hour, and already I'm getting cabin fever.* He wandered into the kitchen, contemplated making coffee, then realized that caffeine wouldn't help his restlessness. Besides, he really didn't feel up to making it. And no matter what the automated coffee maker claimed, it tasted crappy when you tried to make less than three cups. *It's not fair. Life just wasn't designed for single people.*

Mulder walked back over to the window and peered out consideringly, stretching. There was a donut shop just a few blocks down the street. He should be able to make it down and back with breakfast before the weather broke, if he jogged.

That sounded good. Yeah, he was in the mood for comfort food this morning, and donuts would be perfect. As he pulled on a sweat suit, he thought that maybe he'd even get milk instead of coffee, just REALLY regress.

The wind was picking up when he hit the street, and the mist was just short of rain-spray on his face. He paused, debating whether or not to abort the errand. Then his full lower lip poked out a little farther in a sulky expression his parents would have found very familiar. He wanted donuts, and he was going to have them, rain or no rain.

He started off down the street. The pavement was already glistening with moisture, even in the dim light, and there was just the faintest hint of a squish along with the slap each time the soles of his athletic shoes contacted the damp surface. Funny the way sound acted on days like today. He almost thought someone was pacing him somewhere nearby. There was the faintest echo, just a nanosecond after his soles slapped the pavement.

As he jogged, he repeated the poem again, the words coming in an easy cadence with his gate. "One MIS-ty, MOIS-ty MOR-ning when CLOU-dy WAS the WEATHER, I CHANCED to MEET an OLD man, CLO-thed ALL in LEAH-ther..." He chuckled to himself. *Clo-thed? That's stretching the meter a little far, isn't it, Mulder?*

He argued with himself as he continued. *Yeah, well, antique pronunciation. Fits the rhyme. Never bothered me before, not gonna let it bother me now. Leather. Yeah, leather would make sense on a misty, moisty sort of day back w hen they wrote that. No rain gear then. No plastic, for sure. Leather wasn't just a fashion statement back then, it served a purpose. Protective, warm, and water resistant.*

The sweet, yeasty smell of donuts frying assaulted him as he neared the shop, and he skidded to a halt. For a moment he just stood there, eyes closed, head back, hungrily sniffing the delicious scent. Drifting back to the kitchen of his childhood, where, on rare Saturday mornings, his mother had tended the pot of bubbling fat, doling out the still sizzling pastries after they'd been rolled in a plate of cinnamon-sugar. A slow, sweet smile spread across his face, and anyone who cared to look could see what Mulder had looked like as a youth, just entering the first flush of manhood. For those few moments, years of angst, stress, and growing cynicism were wiped away. He was always an attractive man. For that space, at least, he was beautiful.

Fox had enjoyed the brief sensory nostalgia, but he couldn't resist the allure of the aroma for long. He pushed his way through the smeared glass door, into the almost steamy interior of the shop, and went to the counter. It was a glass fronted case, it's shelves holding trays of donut holes and other pastries, such as croissants, and muffins, or bagels for the more `health conscious'. *Though why anyone who cared a lick about their arteries would even come NEAR a place like this, I don't know. Hardly seems any point. Sort of like going to Kentucky Fried Chicken looking for a salad. They might JUST be able to do it, if they stretched, but what would be the point?*

Fox peered past the counter while the clerk finished pouring a cup of coffee for a customer at the end of the serving counter. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Baked, or fried? Buttermilk, plain glazed, honey-dipped, chocolate honey-dipped, Bavarian creme, custard, coconut, blueberry, chocolate chip, apple cinnamon, maple frosted, raspberry jelly, lemon custard filled, vanilla frosted, powdered sugar, cinnamon sugar, crullers...

No, definitely not crullers. Crullers were NOT part of the whole regression scene. Too sophisticated, with their elegant, fluted shape. He needed something very pure and basic today.

He heard the door hush open behind him, and automatically glanced in the round security mirror mounted on the back wall. A dark haired man, perhaps a few years younger than Mulder was entering. The mist must be getting thicker outside: there were droplets of moisture beaded on the shoulders of his leather jacket.

The new arrival paused just inside the doorway, head cocked as if considering something, perhaps whether or not he really wanted to be here. Then his nostrils flared, very green eyes half closed, and his generous mouth stretched in a pleased smile. *Good. There's someone else who can appreciate the atmosphere around here. Enjoy it, buddy. It's one of the few pleasures no one has figured out how to charge for.*

The stranger came to stand behind, and a little to the side, of Mulder. He lifted slightly, not quite going up on tiptoe, and looked over the special agent's shoulder, scanning the cases in the back wall. Mulder could hear the faint creak of the man's leather jacket as he rubbed his chin, in obvious deep concentration. He could smell the jacket, too. Oh, not that it was RIPE, or anything. No sweat. In fact, there was a light, spicy scent of a good aftershave or cologne. No, leather just had it's own particular aroma.

Mulder found it particularly evocative of...Oh, he wasn't sure. A certain sense of masculinity, perhaps? Sure, women wore leather. But it just seemed more FITTING on a man. And on some men, it seemed down right natural. This was one of those men. Despite his almost too perfect good looks, he seemed very at home in the animal skins.

The clerk, a young girl, bustled up to the register, looked right past Mulder to the other man, and gave a beaming `well, HELLO there!' sort of smile that Mulder had yet to encounter from her, despite the number of times he'd been in. *Well, doesn't THAT just make me feel special?*

He was a little surprised when the mild voice said, "He was here first."

*Courtesy? At THIS time of the morning?* Mulder turned slightly to get a better look at him. The man had a pleasant, bland expression. But Mulder had learned a long time ago that didn't signify squat. Some of his weirdest, hairiest experiences on the X Files had been with people and , well, THINGS that at first glance had seemed almost pathetically ordinary.

*No, this guy might be a lot of things, but NOT ordinary.* The thought passed so quickly that Mulder scarcely noticed it. He nodded at the other customer. "Thanks."

Again that almost sweet smile. "Don't mention it."

"What dya want?" Now patently bored, the girl stared at Mulder, foot tapping. She wanted to get him out of the way so she could focus on the green eyed stranger. Mulder sighed. The state of counter help these days.

After a bit more mental debate, he settled on three chocolate frasted. With sprinkles. Sprinkles were very important. He also got a dozen assorted donut holes. *If I'm gonna plug my arteries, I might as well enjoy it.* "And a pint of milk."

The other man pursed his lips. Mulder found himself tracing the outline of that full, pink mouth, and gave himself a mental shake. What on earth was going on in his head this morning? Maybe he SHOULD have gone for the caffeine. "No coffee? You look like a coffee drinker."

"Usually, yeah. Java junkie." Mulder shrugged. "Just feeling a little kiddish for some reason this morning." The other nodded, as if this made eminent sense.

The clerk filled his order, rang him up, then laid his change on the counter, ignoring his outstretched hand, to turn her attention bact tho the object of her current fascination. Mulder started to scrape up the change, when he suddenly found a hand holding his wrist. Surprised, he looked up to find the dark haired man shaking his head.

His expression was just a touch grim now. "You don't have to put up with that." He looked at the suddenly nervous girl, and suddenly he didn't seem quite so bland anymore. "That was rude. He's your customer, and he deserves more than that. Do it right."

The girl quickly gathered up the coins and pressed them into Mulder's palm. "Sorrraboutthatthankyouforyourbusinessyouhaveanicedayandcomebac ksoon."

She looked warily at the other customer, who nodded. "Much better. Try breathing next time. I'll have a bagel." Mulder groaned. "What? Don't they have good bagels here?"

"They're okay, I guess, but they're BAGELS."

"I could have cream cheese on it."

"Oh, fat on top of tasteless. Yummy."

His lips twitched, but he didn't quite smile. "I LIKE bagels."

Mulder shrugged. "You're choice. Just seems an awful waste of a perfectly good opportunity for junk food."

He left the shop, glancing back over his shoulder through the glass of the door when he hit the street. His hazel eyes met green, and he looked away quickly. *Don't stare, Mulder. Don't live up to the Spooky moniker. Don't creep out the nice man.*

He strolled along, enjoying the stillness. The streets were still deserted. The last of the streetlamps were going off, even though they could probaly have been useful for a little while longer. But the power company had a time table and, by God, according to that schedule it was officially daylight, and the populace could do without illumination.

Suddenly the air was split overhead by a crash of thunder that made Mulder literally jump. It was accompanied almost simultaneously by a flash of lightening that leaped across the sky, from cloud to cloud, and for a moment bathed the land below in incandescence. Then came the Rain.

*And that's with a capital R. Je-sus! And I thought this wasn't going to be a heavy storm. Got me again, God.* Mulder thought this as he scrambled into the recessed doorway of a book store. It was raining too damn hard to even attempt the last few blocks to his apartment.

As it was, he was already pretty damp. He raked a hand through his hair, feeling the dampness, knowing that it was now wildly spiked, and not caring. Who the hell was there to worry about it, anyway?

Leaning back against the door, he gazed out at the rain. It was like there was a waterfall running right over the open space before him. If this lasted very long, the streets would flood for sure. The drainage system couldn't handle such sudden and massive runoff. Oh, well. If he was stuck, at least he was stuck with breakfast.

He pulled a donut out of the only slightly damp paper bag and had just sunk his teeth through the fragile chocolate skim of frosting when another body hurtled into his sanctuary, slamming into the door beside him. Mulder bit the rest of the way through the donut a lot more abruptly than he had planned, but thankfully missed tongue or lip.

"Whoa! Sorry about that," panted the man. "Didn't mean to startle you, but CHRIST! Than came on fast."

Mulder chewed briefly, then swallowed. The guy seemed big on manners, so no speaking with the mouth full. "Yeah, didn't seem like it was gonna be all THAT when I came out."

The stranger nodded agreement. His dark hair was plastered to his well shaped head, seal sleek and shiny, and water dripped down his face. "Just sorta misty...moisty..."

Mulder regarded him in surprise, feeling a smile starting to tug at his lips. "You remember that old nursery rhyme?"

"One misty, moisty morning, all cloudy was the weather..."

"When," Mulder corrected. "When cloudy was the weather. I'll be damned. I would have sworn that I was the only person in D.C,, if not Maryland, thinking of that this morning."

"Swearing can be a very chancy proposition." He offered his hand. "Since we're sharing space, we should introduce ourselves. Alex Krycek."

Hm. Bit of an exotic name to go with those green eyes. Fox swapped the donut to his left hand and shook. "Mulder." Let him make what he would of no first name. Mulder didn't give up his first name easily.

Krycek didn't seem to take offense. "How do you do?"

Mulder's smile broadened, "And how do you do?"

They chorused the final line, "And how do you do, again? Damn, you're good!"

Krycek chuckled. "No, that should be MY line, since I'm the one `clothed all in leather.' I'm the one who's supposed to compliment YOU. You just grin."

"Well, yeah, but it doesn't hold quite true. You're not exactly an old man."

There was an odd glint in the green eyes. "There's different kinds of old. Wonderful things, nursery rhymes. Memorizing poetry disciplines the mind. I think the school system lost something when recitations fell out of favor."

"They wanted to create thinkers, not people who would just mouth someone else's ideas."

Krycek opened the paper bag he'd been carrying. "I'm not entirely sure they didn't do the American people a disservice," he murmured.

"Odd philosophy."

"I'm a little different, yeah." Mulder shook his head when he saw Krycek pull out the bagel and a cup of coffee. "So sue me. I need the calcium from the cream cheese." Fox opened his pint of milk in a decidedly pointed manner. "You know, you can be sarcastic without saying a word."

"One of my many talents." They munched in companionable silence for a few minutes.

Mulder wanted to stare out at the rain, but found his eyes being drawn back to Krycek, watching the way his strong jaw flexed as he worked on the chewy bagel. When Alex looked at him suddenly, meeting his eyes, he hastily took another bite of donut.

The scent of his cologne, and the tang of damp leather filled the little entryway. The space was open fronted, but smaller than a closet, and the men were close together. Fox could feel the sleeve of Krycek's jacket brush his arm every time the man lifted the bagel to his lips.

Krycek finished the bagel quickly, licking a smear of pale cream cheese from one elegantly long finger, and eyeing the bag in Fox's hand. He shifted a little closer, and Mulder could feel his body heat. "You know," Krycek's voice was low. "I really have a hard time resisting sweet stuff."

Mulder twitched, staring at him, trying to decide if there was some sort of double meaning to the words. But then Krycek's expression was open and innocent as a child's when he said, "Trade my last sip of coffee for a donut hole?"

"Oh. Sure." Mulder gulped the last of the thick brew, feeling like a little alertness right now couldn't hurt, and he couldn't count entirely on a sugar rush. Then he held out the open bag.

Again Krycek took hold of his wrist, his grip gentle, but hinting at strength that wasn't readily apparent in his slender build. He slipped his other hand into the sack, the paper rustling. "Let's see, which one do I want?" He paused, looking up at Mulder through dark, spiky lashes. "I really SHOULDN'T be playing with your balls, should I?" Mulder almost choked before he continued. "Don't worry, I won't touch anything I don't intend to eat," and pulled out a powdered sugar donut hole.

Mulder, feeling a little dizzy, took a hefty gulp of milk as Krycek ate the little pastry in two dainty bites. "Delicious. Could I have one more?"

"Help yourself," Mulder croaked. Again his wrist was captured, and Krycek rustled the paper bag while making a leisurely selection. Mulder was shaking by the time he let go.

*What the FUCK is going on here?! I've got to get home. This man is WAY too disturbing.* And yet, there hadn't really been anything said, or done. "It's been nice meeting you, but I need to get on home."

Krycek glanced out at the still teeming rain, then back at Mulder. "You'll get soaked." He paused. "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"

"No,no." *Too quick, too vehement. Methinks he doth protest too much.* "I've just got things I need to do. *And besides, I think a cold shower right now might be just what I need.* "I just have things to do."

"Alright." Krycek offered his hand again. Mulder would have expected it to be cool, with his recent dousing. But it was very warm. "Maybe we'll meet again."

"Um...maybe." Mulder slipped the bag holding the remnants of his breakfast under his shirt and dashed out into the flood. He pounded up the streaming sidewalk, sprays of water flying at each footfall, drenched before he'd gone a yard.

Alex Krycek watched Fox Mulder disappear into the envelop ing rain, and thought, *Oh, you can count on it, Foxy. Tomorrow, in fact."

He hadn't been too interested when he'd gotten this assignment. FBI agents, in his experience, were usually dull, stolid individuals. As he'd studied Mulder's dossier, his opinion had changed. By the time he was ready to begin, he was quite looking forward to meeting Mulder, and so far he wasn't disappointed.

Krycek leaned comfortably back in the doorway, and absently rubbed at the bulge at his crotch. He was glad he'd decided to stake out Mulder's apartment a few hours before he expected him to get up. What a treat he'd had.

The other man, obviously thinking himself unobserved, had appeared at his window in nothing but a thin pair of boxers. He'd stood there, watching the approaching weather for some time. His long, lean body had been relaxed, unconsciously graceful. At his position in the alleyway across the street, with his binoculars, Alex had a good view.

He'd scanned Mulder's body in loving detail, taking in the sleek muscles, the abundant, sable brown hair, the deliciously sulkly mouth. He hadn't really gotten a good impression of the eye color, and had been delighted when he got a closer look in the coffee shop. They were a hazel as unusual as his own shade of green.

Eye color aside, the binoculars had been excellent at picking out details. He'd been able to see that Mulder's nipples were slightly puckered by the chill near the window. That was when he'd started to get hard, and it hadn't gone away yet. Mulder's proximity, touching him, his reactions to the double entendre's...They'd all served to give Krycek an insistent erection. And, since it was far too soon to get the one who'd caused it to do anything about it...

Alex, fairly sure no one would come by, but not really giving a damn, unzipped and began to masturbate, thinking about that pretty, pretty mouth. He whispered, "How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do, again?"

The End

* * *

Title: One Way of Looking At a Fox  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Series: Part of the 'Poetic' series.  
Pairing: none  
Status: WIP  
Criticism: Yes  
Archive: Yes, let me know where  
Feedback: Yes.   
Disclaimer: Krycek and Mulder belong to Chris Carter. They just come over to my house for play dates.  
Summary: Somewhere down the line, Alex Krycek reflects on the beginning of his obsession with Fox Mulder.  
Notes: For the Slashing Mulder First Anniversary Contest, Snippet division. Sort of a sequel to 'Change One Little Word...'  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Sorry, no smut. Pre slash.

* * *

One Way of Looking At a Fox  
from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird  
By Wallace Stevens

V

I do not know which to prefer,  
The beauty of inflections  
Or the beauty of innuendoes,  
The blackbird whistling  
Or just after.

Alex

I suppose I started falling in love with him while I was reading his dossier, preparing for my next assignment: him. Special Agent Fox Mulder. Now that I think about it, how could I NOT love someone with a name like that? Fox: sly, wild, beautiful, cunning. All accurate descriptions. Even his nickname, Spooky, was apropros. He's a remarkably skittish man... about certain things.

I'm thorough, so of course the information they provided wasn't enough. I had to do a little digging on my own. I checked out his school records, and discovered that he'd taken a remarkable number of literature courses for someone going into the criminal justice field. They mostly focused on poetry. I liked that, I really did. I feel that I, myself, have a rather poetic soul. Oh, yes, I know that the psychiatrists would relate this to self delusion. I've been diagnosed as a sociopath more than once. Still, one must have a concept of oneself, and this is mine: a poetic soul. There aren't many of us in the >world. I was delighted to find Mulder.

It was clear from the beginning that he had a romantic nature. I mean, really... Can you say 'Don Quixote'? To the world at large, there aren't much bigger windmills to tilt at than the ones he goes after. They simply never see that they actually ARE giants. The picture didn't hurt the infatuation process. That sulky bottom lip... I just wanted to BITE it.

I had decided to do a bit of field observation before the assignment actually started, so I stationed myself across from his apartment the day before our 'official' meeting was to take place, and watched. When he appeared almost naked in the window, it took my breath away. He really is a gorgeous man, and he seems totally unaware of it.

When he left his apartment in the grey drizzle just after dawn, I followed. It isn't easy to tail on an empty, early morning street, but I managed it. He was preoccupied, which helped. WHAT he was preoccupied with endeared him to me almost immediately.

A nursery rhyme, can you believe it? He was chanting one of the old poems that all good little children used to know by heart, back in the dear dead days before video games and half hour commercials masquerading as cartoons. The 'Misty, Moisty Morning' rhymes, one of my personal favorites.

Oh, that was fun: following him into the donut shop, watching him express that secret greed he keeps so well hidden, and making contact (both methaphorically and physically). The first time I laid my hand on him, simply gripping his wrist, I thought he was going >to jump out of his skin. Skittish, like I said. He felt the electricity, too. The few words we exchanged were innocuous enough, but that look he threw back at >me as he was leaving...

Well, I HAD to follow after that, didn't I? It was such a clear invitation, even if he DIDN'T know he was extending it.

He'd taken refuge in a doorway, sheltering from the >sudden deluge that had caught him about halfway back to his apartment. I crashed into his little sanctuary, pretending I hadn't known he was there. I almost ran INTO him, wanting a taste, however brief, of that long, elegant body, but I held off. I wanted to spend a little time with him, and that meant showing a little restraint.

He seemed wary at first, till I brought up the verse. 'Oh, my. Small world, isn't it?' He relaxed a little > then, and we introduced ourselves. We both got a kick out of working the verse into the conversation. Most people would think you were crazy if you said I could be playful. They haven't seen the results of some of my... more difficult assignments. There are all KINDS of ways to be playful. Cats are very playful with smaller, more vulnerable creatures.

We ate breakfast together there in the doorway, watching the rain stream down outside, hitting the sidewalk so hard it threw a spray of mist back at us. I remember deciding then and there that we'd have breakfast together again someday, but in the traditional manner: after a night of hot sex.

It might have gone on longer, but... Well, I couldn't resist teasing him a little. He reacts so beautifully. Perfectly harmless little remarks about... ahem, donut holes. I didn't have to hold his wrist when I fished in the bag those times, but I did. I had him shaking before I let go. So responsive. I had started to get hard while I scoped him out with the binoculars. It quickly developed into a raging hard on.

What can I say? He does it for me.

I guess I pushed just a little too hard. He ran. Literally. Oh, he made a polite excuse about things to do, then he pounded off into the downpour. His clothes were plastered to him before he went two steps. I was left to imagine ripping them off him, then drying him with my tongue. With that image in my mind, I began my first slow hand dance to a fantasy about Fox Mulder.

I've had him since then, many times and many ways: slow and sweet, angry and hard. It's good, but the memory sometimes rivals the reality. It's that first contact my mind goes back to, before I knew him in the flesh. When all I had was the memory of my hand on his wrist, the scent of him, and the excited anticipation of what lay ahead...

* * *

Title: As One Shuts an Open Door...  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Status: Finished  
Criticism: yes  
Feedback:   
Archive: Yes  
Disclaimer: Chris Carter's. No profit. Blah blah.  
Notes: For Slashing Mulder 1st anniversary contest, Weather division. Part of combined 'Weather' and 'Poetic' series. Takes place just after 'Change One Little Word...'  
Summary: Rooftop discussion between Mulder and Krycek about their new partnership.  
Rating: PG-13. One word.  
Warnings: none

* * *

May Wind  
By Sarah Teasdale

I said, "I have shut my heart  
As one shuts an open door,  
That Love may starve therein  
And trouble me no more."

But over the roofs there came  
The wet new wind of May,  
And a tune blew up from the curb  
Where the street-pianos play.

My room was white with the sun  
And Love cried out in me,  
"I am strong, I will break your heart  
Unless you set me free."

Krycek found Mulder on the roof of the Bureau building, as far away from his basement cubbyhole as he could get. He paused just outside the roof exit, looking at the FBI agent.

Mulder was at the low wall that ran around the roof's perimiter. He wasn't exactly LEANING on it; he had better since than that. One didn't lean over a great drop, in a lonely place, when they were are paranoid as Mulder. No, he was just resting his hands lightly on the top of the wall.

Krycek moved up behind him quietly. Not stealthily. He wasn't trying to avoid detection, though he had no doubt that he COULD have. He could have had Mulder up and over the safety wall in a heartbeat, if that was what he had wanted. It wasn't.

He didn't want to startle Mulder, or take him too abruptly out of whatever mood he was in. He'd only been partnered with the other man a couple of days, and so far he found observing Mulder fascinating, not at all the boring obligation he'd been expecting.

As he moved up beside Mulder, he was surprised to see that his eyes were closed. His head was back slightly. A brisk, moist wind was blowing across the roof, pushing his heavy brown hair back from it's accustome drape across his forehead.

"They go on and on about April. No one ever seems to mention May, though." He didn't open his eyes, or make any sign that he'd known Krycek was there.

"What about May? April showers bring May floweres."

Mulder slitted hazel eyes at him disdainfully. "C'mon, Krycek. You can do better than that. I like nursery rhymes, too, but there are so many hundreds of other verses."

"Feeling poetic, are we?"

"It keeps me from wanting to strangle certain people."

"Look, I said I was sorry. You KNOW this assignment wasn't my choice, but I'm trying to make the best of it. This can work for us, if you give it a chance."

"It's nothing personal, Krycek. But SCULLY is my partner. I want her back."

"So you're not willing to even TRY?"

"Look, I learned my lesson with Dana. I'm never going to get attached to a partner again. I can't stand... I'm pissed, okay? It just isn't worth the effort."

"I said I have shut my heart, as one shuts an open door, that Love may starve therein, and trouble me no more."

Mulder stared at him. At last he said, "Huh. Sarah Teasdale, Krycek?" He seemed to think. "Not...the same thing."

"No? It isn't abnormal to love a partner. You and Scully relied on each other, trusted each other. Cared for each other. It's not so far from love. You need someone to trust and rely on. To care for, and to care for you. She's gone, Mulder. I'm here."

"She's not GONE. She's down in the autopsy lab."

Krycek sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Willfully obtuse. You cant' let this break you, Mulder. You have to keep going. Form new attachments."

"I don't WANT new attachments." Another gust of wind passed over the roof. Fox watched as Krycek's green eyes squinted slightly against the fine grit that had been whipped up. Watched as one long fingered, well molded hand lazily brushed down his sleeves, his chest... Looked away... and didn't see Krycek smile as he saw his nervousness. Alex Krycek had discovered very early on that he made Mulder edgy in a way the FBI agent didn't understand. Krycek intended to make the reasons clear to him...soon.

Mulder once again turned his face into the breeze. "Your poem may have squat to do with my situation, but it IS more appropritate for today than that month thing. But over the roofs there came, the wet new winds of May. And a tune blew up from the curb, where the street pianos play."

There was a pause. "What about the rest of it?"

Mulder shrugged. "No more appropriate than the first verse."

"My room was white with the sun, and love cried out in me..."

Mulder's face darkened. "I told you, Krycek! It's not the same thing."

"You know, you're going to just keep on being miserable until you admit that you need someone..."

Mulder grabbed him suddenly by the suit front and shook him, his expression fierce. "I don't need anyone! Get that through your head, Krycek. Especially you. I don't need you, and I don't want you. So just stay the fuck out of my way!"

He released the dark haired man with a little shove, turned, and stalked back to the door that led back into the building. Krycek watched him go, a tiny smile curving his full lips. He whispered, "Denial, denial, denail, Fox."

Then he went to the edge of the roof, and turned his face into the breeze, as Mulder had. He felt the moist air move against his face, cooling somewhat the fever that always seemed to arise when Fox Mulder put his hands on him. Again he whispered. "Denial."

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. "I am strong. I will break your heart, unless you set me free..."

The End

* * *

Title: Like A Two Edged Sword  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: Complete  
Sequel/Series: Part of the combined 'Weather' and 'Poetic' series.  
Criticism: Yes.  
Archive: Yes. Tell me where.  
Feedback:   
Disclaimer: Fox and Alex belong to Chris Carter. But I love them more.  
Rating: PG-13  
Notes: I don't know if Mulder and Krycek ever shared an office in canon. They do here. After 'As One Shuts An Open Door...'  
Summary: Krycek misjudges his timing, but by how much?

* * *

Like A Two Edged Sword

Winter Night  
by Sarah Teasdale

My window-pane is starred with frost,  
The world is bitter cold to-night,  
The moon is cruel, and the wind  
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

...  
My room is like a bit of June,  
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,  
But somewhere, like a homeless child,  
My heart is crying in the cold.

The package, flat and slim, landed on the desk in front of Mulder. It was wrapped in shiny white paper, with a blood red ribbon knotted around it and curled into a careless, but somehow elegant bow. He studied it for a moment, then looked up into the bright green eyes of the man who had dropped it before him. "What?"

Alex Krycek pursed his lips. "You know, Mulder, that's a record for verbal stinginess, even for you."

"All right. What's the occasion?"

"Happy birthday."

Mulder scowled. "It isn't my birthday."

Alex crossed his arms. "I didn't think it was. But you won't TELL me when it is, and neither will Scully."

Mulder arched an eyebrow. "And of course you're too ethical to look it up in my dossier."

Krycek shrugged, ignoring the implied suspicion of his ethics. "Anyway, you've been acting particularly surly lately. And given your general level of gruffness, that's pretty bad. So I thought I'd just pick a day and go ahead with your present."

"I haven't been that bad."

"You make Walter Skinner look like Richard Simmons." Mulder gave a startled, half smothered bark of laughter, and Krycek smiled. "I know. It's picturing him bouncing around in tank top and baggy shorts, sweatin' to the oldies."

"Um...yeah. Something like that." Fox picked up the package, and turned it over in his hands. "What is it?"

"I don't tell secrets, Mulder," *Not unless I'm VERY well paid.* "Open it and find out." Mulder held the package to his ear and shook it experimentally. Alex rolled his eyes. "Somehow I knew you'd be a box-shaker."

"Yeah? You don't know me."

Krycek watched as Mulder picked the ribbon loose, and started working his fingers carefully under the folded paper, prying up the tape. *I know you, Fox. I know you better than you know yourself. I'm going to be introducing you to yourself, very, very soon.*

"Hey." Mulder's voice was soft, almost wondering. He looked at the thin book. "Love Songs, by Sarah Teasdale."

"It's not a first edition, but it IS initialed by the author on the fly page."

Mulder flipped to the indicated page, and ran his fingers over the inscribed letters. "I'll be damned. Uh...thanks."

"You're welcome."

Mulder sighed, closing the volume. "No, really thanks. I...have been kind of a shit lately, and now this. People...don't usually put a lot of thought into my gifts. Scully gave me a tie last year. Said she had to do something about the goddawful nooses I picked for myself."

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but since SHE did..."

"I'm feeling kindly toward you. Don't spoil it." Mulder flipped through the pages gently. "Lots of good stuff in this one. 'Barter', 'The Gift', 'The Kiss'..."

"May Wind."

Mulder's flicking paused, but he didn't look up at the man standing before him. "Winter Night. There's an appropriate one, even if it IS not far gone into autumn. My window-pane is starred with frost, the world is bitter cold to-night..."

"The moon is cruel, and the wind is like a two-edged sword to smite." Mulder looked up at him in surprise. "Yes, it is appropriate. We'll have frost tonight."

"So soon? It hardly seems right."

"Nature isn't always logical, and is seldom what we'd call fair, Mulder. All we can do is accept it. Live with it. Ride it out."

Mulder's eyes followed Krycek as he walked back and sat at his own desk. Why did he always feel like Krycek was saying one thing, but TELLING him something else?

Reluctantly he laid aside the slender volume of poetry and got back to work on the pile of reports that needed to be finished. But every now and again, his hand would creep unconsciously over to caress the little book. He didn't even notice he was doing it. Krycek noticed, though. He kept his head bent studiously over his own paperwork, so Mulder wouldn't see the faint, smug smile.

The temperature dropped even further that evening. Mulder's breath fogged before him, even in his car, till he got the heater going sufficiently. When he got home, he cranked the thermostat up, cursing himself for his own economy measures in leaving the heat turned so low. He had to walk around in his coat for awhile, waiting for the apartment to warm.

While he waited for the furnace to take the chill out of the air, he went to look out his window. He'd been late getting off: it was already dusk, deepening into twilight.

He was startled to see the thin white rime that glazed the outside of the window panes. Krycek had been right. Frost. He pressed his palm flat against the glass, fingers outspread. It was cold, very cold, but not wet. The air inside had been close enough to that outside that therea�™d been no condensation.

The new frost was very fragile. After only a few seconds, the heat of Mulder's touch traveled through the plate of glass. The frost dissolve on the other side of the space his hand occupied, leaving a clear space, and letting trickles run down to begin defrosting the rest of the glass.

Gradually, the place warmed. He shrugged out of his coat, then went and got into a comfortable set of sweats, just in case he wanted to turn the heat back down later. Right now he couldn't imagine wanting that, but you never knew when frugality might sneak up and attack you.

By the time he'd changed, the apartment had lost it's chill. It was quite warm, bordering on too warm. Mulder went back to the front window, and watched as the frost gave up fighting the heat that was so close, and melted off the window. If things kept up at this rate, in a week or two the frost would stay. The outside would be cold enough to combat whatever heat was inside his walls.

After a moment more, he drew the curtains tight, shutting out the fast approaching night. He couldn't say if he did this because it was too full of things he didn't feel like dealing with, or because it was too empty.

"My room is like a bit of June, warm and close-curtained fold on fold," he murmured, stroking the curtain lightly. Physical warmth, yes. That, at least.

Mulder frowned, shaking his head. He'd better get away from the window. He seemed to be having too many odd thoughts whenever he looked off into the distance these days.

The knock at the door took him a little by surprise. He put the chain on before he unlocked it, and cracked it open.

Krycek was huddled in the hall, hands stuffed deep in his leather jacket. *Must've taken the time to go home and change. If he got in out of this weather, why in God's name did he go OUT again?*

"Mulder, your landlord keeps it like a freaking meat locker out here. Can I come in?" Fox shut the door, reaching for the chain. He hesitated for a moment. Why was Krycek here? What did he want? Curiosity had always been one of Mulder's defining characteristics, so he took off the chain and opened the door.

Krycek stepped past him into the room, relief clear on his face as Mulder shut and re-locked the door. "Thank you. I was freezing my balls off out there."

"Go stand over the floor vent and thaw out, then."

"I think I'll do that little thing." Alex strode over to the floor vent, and stood astraddle it. He spread his legs slightly, and sighed voluptuously as the heated air blew up under his jeans. "Oh, man that helps!"

Mulder watched him as he rocked back and forth on his heels, swaying slightly. He unzipped his jacket, and fanned the edges for a moment before removing it, showing that he was wearing only a thin black T-shirt beneath it. His nipples were erect from the cold, thrusting against the soft, dark fabric aggressively.

Mulder found himself thinking that the jacket would have two smells to it right now. The exterior would smell of the outside world: dampness and cold, maybe a little smoke from the leaves that were still being burned. The inside would smell of...Alex. Heat, and his cologne, and the personal, elusive scent of his skin, a scent that Mulder had noticed once or twice when Krycek leaned over him at his desk to make a point.

"What do you want, Krycek? Besides recovering your body heat, I mean."

Krycek shrugged. "Well, if I have to have a REASON..." He rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulled out the book of verse, and tossed it to Mulder. "You left your present. Housekeeping has been known to appropriate small items in the past. I know a book of poetry might not be high on the list of 'Items to be Ripped Off at Every Opportunity', buuut..."

Mulder felt embarrassed. So, it was just a nice gesture, after all. Nothing invasive, nothing...personal. "Would you like some coffee?"

"I won't say no." He followed Mulder into the kitchen. It hadn't quite warmed up in there yet, and Mulder was glad he had thought to put on shoes against the chill of the tile floor. As Mulder set the coffee to brew, Krycek went to the sink, peering at the small window in the wall behind it. He leaned forward, touching a fingertip to the pane. "Frost." He looked back over his shoulder at Mulder. "I told you so."

Mulder took in Krycek's stance, bent over a little, legs slightly spread. The jeans were faded, and as tight as a second skin, clearly outlining the cleft of his buttocks. *Damn, you'd never think that body was under those dark suits,* Mulder thought vaguely.

Mulder turned away, pulling two mugs off the row of rings over the microwave. He picked up the carafe too soon, and a thin dribble of liquid hit the hot plate of the coffee maker, hissing and sputtering. He cursed quietly, pouring the brew, and set the glass pot back with a small thump that elicited more hisses and pops from the liquid trapped under it.

Fox turned...

...and nearly sloshed coffee on Krycek, who was suddenly standing very close. *Good GOD, that man is fast! And quiet.* Fox offered the cup silently, and Krycek accepted it with equal quiet. Instead of holding it by the handle, he cradled it in his palms, warming his hands on it, and sipped like a child, tipping his head to keep his eyes on Mulder. Lowering the mug, he licked his upper lip like a cat. "Good brew. Any special blend?"

"It's...Uh, Jamaican and Kona, mixed. I ground it this morning."

"Mm. Very nice." He drank deeply, then sighed. "Enough to melt the chill out of your bones. Aren't you going to drink yours?"

Mulder realized that he'd just been holding his mug. Had, in fact, let it tip so far in his distraction that it was nearly spilling out. He drank, not really noticing the taste. He leaned back against the counter, trying to be casual. This was his home, damn it. He wouldn't let anyone make him nervous in his own home.

Finishing his coffee quickly, he the cup aside and watched to see what Krycek would do. Krycek drained his own mug, and reached past Mulder to set it on the counter...

...and left his hand there, braced so that he was leaning in toward Mulder, looking up into his face. Mulder went very still. Krycek put the other hand flat on the counter, on his other side. Now Fox was between his arms, between him and the counter.

The silence spun out. Krycek shifted, moving closer, studying Mulder, green eyes probing hazel. Mulder could feel his mouth going dry, despite the liquid he'd just consumed. He looked down at the smaller man, taking in the slight flush on his face, the tiny points pressing against his shirtfront (which hadn't receeded with the warmth of the room), and, lower down, another, larger mound beneath his jeans' fly.

When Mulder managed to speak, his voice was hoarse. "What are you doing?"

Kyrcek sighed. "It looks like I'm misjudging my timeing."

The way Fox saw it, there were four possible reactions right now. A, he could hit Krycek as hard and as often as possible. B, he could laugh. C, he could react by not reacting, and hope the problem would go AWAY. Or D, he could push himself against Krycek, and find out just how warm and firm that bulge was. Mulder had followed a system on tests all through school. Multiple choice? If you were absolutely sure, choose. If you kinda-sorta knew, guess. And if you had no fucking clue whatsoever, either choose C or leave it blank.

"I think you'd better go now."

Krycek bit his lip, then slowly pulled away from Mulder. "My mistake."

He went into the living room, and Mulder watched him through the doorway as he slipped on his jacket zipping it up. "Thanks for the coffee..." His smile twisted. "And the warmth." He cocked his head. "You get cold sometimes, don't you, Mulder? Cold, and lonely?"

He walked away. Mulder listened to his steps retreat, then heard the door open, and close. He gripped the counter behind him and waited for his knees to be absolutely steady before he moved.

After locking the door again, he sat on the couch. The 'Love Songs' book was on the cushion beside him, and he picked it up, letting it fall open at random. It came to rest on 'Winter Night'. Fox reread it, shifting on the sofa. The room was feeling cooler now, somehow, but he was aware of an inner warmth that radiated undeniably from his body's core. The apartment suddenly seemed almost hideously quiet.

When he read the final couplet of the poem, he hastily snapped the book shut, and stared at it.

*But somewhere, like a homeless child, my heart is crying in the cold."

* * *

Little Cat Feet  
By Carl Sandburg

The fog comes in  
on little cat feet.  
It sits looking  
over the harbor and city  
on silent haunches  
and then moves on.  
back  
to crossroads

* * *

Little Cat Feet  
by Scribe (the story, not the poem)

He almost turned around. Almost. But the tip seemed so promising...Surely it was worth a little risk.

Mulder crept along, his speedometer barely quivering over zero, peering through the windshield. It was almost like having a bale of cotton wool pressed against the glass. The radio said that this was the worst fog to hit the area for the last twenty years. Fox could believe that easily. He'd certainly never seen anything even remotely like it.

The radio was also advising anyone who didn't absolutely have to not to drive. In fact, they were recommending staying indoors, period. The disc jockey had used a patently fake Boris Karloff voice. "Nothing toxic in this, but the poor visibility makes any form of travel hazardous, and it's perfect weather for lurking, people."

"No shit." Mulder muttered. He cut the wipers up from slow to fast, but it didn't make much difference. The rubber blades sliced away a film of water with each stroke, and the glass was blurred again before they could make a return pass.

He should be close by now. That was, unless he'd missed a turn in this mess. He didn't THINK he had. Twice he'd stopped in the middle of the road *yeah, dangerous, but fuck. With this pea soup no one would have seen my tail lights no matter what* and gotten out to go check street signs. The beam of his high powered flashlight barely penetrated the few inches needed when he stood right below the signs.

*Why the hell do informants have to choose places like this to meet? Why docks and warehouses and parking garages? What ever happened to diners? Didn't informers used to meet cops in diners? I could do with a cup of coffee right now.*

His right front tire bumped up on a curb, and Mulder swung back into the street, cursing under his breath. *Better ease over some more. Someone may be parked on the side, waiting out the fog. Instead of driving in it, like me. Like an idiot.*

Thank God it was blacktop. If it had been cement, he never would have been able to see the center line. As it was, it was a faintly luminous strip, reflecting the diffused beam of his headlights. He hugged it, trying not to go over into the oncoming lane.

Fox noted that he was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his hands ached. His knuckles were bunched and white with strain. *My fucking blood pressure is probably off the scale right about now. Damn, I don't like not being able to see...*

He leaned forward till his chest was pressed against the steering wheel, his nose only inches from the windshield. It occurred to him that if someone came barreling out of the fog and rear ended him, he'd make a swan dive through the glass.

Finally there seemed to be a break in the curbing to his right. He once again stopped the car, offering up a prayer against fast driving idiots, and got out to check his location. It was the entrance to the dockside parking lot. Hallelujah!

Mulder pulled in carefully, and parked almost immediately. He wasn't going to chance either running into a parked car, or driving off into the water. Much as he hated the idea of walking through this fog, he'd just have to hoof it down to the dock.

Fox climbed out of his car, and immediately his clothes were clinging to him. It was like he'd been sprayed with a fine mist. The fog was so thick it was only a fraction of a percent away from rain. He pulled on his trench coat in a vain attempt at some dryness. He had to leave it open so he could reach his gun, just in case.

Fox had left his head lights on as he got prepared, and now he shut them off. Visibility went from a few yards to approximately a foot. It was surreal. The mist that floated around him was white and wispy. A little farther away it thickened abruptly to a dense gray mass, looking almost solid.

*Well, I know which direction the docks are in, because I was pointing that way when I parked. I think. And I can hear the water lapping. Okay. Slowly now.*

Mulder advanced cautiously. He'd only gone a few steps when he turned back to look at his car. He couldn't see it. He had no doubt it was THERE, but someone might as well have drawn a gray velvet curtain between him and the vehicle.

He paused for a moment, listening. God, it was quiet. Up ahead he could hear the faint slap of water against piers, but that was it. No engines, no radios blasting, no gun shots. None of the noises you'd expect this close to an urban area.

"The fog crept in on little cat feet..." he muttered. Who wrote that? Frost? Whitman? No, Sandburg. Carl Sandburg. Yeah, that was a good analogy. Or was it a metaphor? And why was he worrying about English terms NOW? *Cause I'll grab at anything to keep my mind off how creepy this is.*

He didn't even hear the cries of the sea birds who eternally circled this area. Even they must have been grounded. This was confirmed when he walked past a number of sea gulls huddled on the moist surface of the lot. They regarded him with calm, beady eyes, not even bothering to stroll away.

*Why am I here? I could be home on the couch, eating take out Chinese and watching porn. I still haven't seen `Forest Hump' or `Good Will Cunting'.* He sighed gustily, and answered himself. *I'm here because the email that ended up in my mailbox said they had information that could affect me personally. And they knew things.* The email had contained certain details about Mulder's life that he had been fairly sure no one knew, not even his parents or his partner, Scully. The fact that The Lone Gunmen hadn't been able to trace the source of the email was another argument for it's authenticity.

Mulder started forward again, resisting the urge to stretch his arms out in front to feel his way along. He advanced a step at a time, not wanting to risk falling down a flight of stairs, or off into the harbor.

"It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches," he continued. *I didn't know I knew that. Yeah, I memorized this in high school. We had to have five poems by heart, and this one was short and easy. And kinda cool.*

He'd made it out onto the docks, and walked along the water's edge. Vast ships loomed to his left, vaster warehouses to his right. Now, where was his contact? `I'll find you' the note had said. He didn't like that, but he didn't have much choice in the matter. He paused near a dark gap between two buildings. He only knew it was there because a security lamp on one of the buildings cast a muted, underwater type glow that managed to penetrate almost to the ground.

Then he heard it. It was a footfall, he was certain of that. But the acoustics were distorted by the fog, and he was disoriented by the swirling mists. He couldn't tell where it came from, or how far away it was. It came again, and he turned nervously, trying to pinpoint it, to no avail.

"Hello?" *Fuck, that's stupid. I HATE it when people say `Hello' trying to get someone's attention.* "I'm here. Show yourself." *Huh. For all I know, he could be TRYING to show himself. He could be right behind me...*

A hand fell on his shoulder, and cold steel nudged the back of his neck. A soft, hissing voice said, "Take your gun out very carefully and pass it back."

Mulder obeyed, removing his gun with the tips of his fingers and passing it back over his shoulder. It was taken. He heard the clip ejected, and then it was handed back to him, empty. "Put it away."

Mulder reholstered the gun, and said, as calmly as possible, "You don't need the gun."

"Maybe not, but they're so much fun."

He frowns. "Alex?"

"Well, you finally hit bingo, Mulder, but it took a lot of numbers, didn't it? Step back into my office." A hand grips Mulder's collar, tuning him, and he is guided back into the alley.

*Oh, I don't like this one little bit.* The alley is littered with junk, and Mulder stumbles, would fall if Krycek didn't haul him back up. They go deeper into the cave like space, till the entrance is only a distant, hazy glow.

Fox is shoved up against a humidity sweating metal wall, then turned. The gun muzzle comes to rest under his chin this time.

He can barely see Krycek, even as close as he is. All he can really make out is the pale blur of his face, and the odd, almost luminous green of his eyes. Oh, and his smile. It gleams.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Cut the bull shit, Krycek. It's too nasty to waste time out here. Tell me what it is you brought me her to tell me."

"Fox, Fox, Fox." His voice is chiding. "No hello? No how have you been? I'm hurt."

"Fuck you."

The smile broadens. "You had that chance. Passed it up, as I recall."

"Why am I here?"

"What did I want to tell you, and why are you here. Those are two separate questions, Fox. I'll answer both, if you ask me nicely."

Fox scowled. Grudgingly he put a veneer of politeness in his voice. "Would you care to give me the information you hinted at in your message?"

"Oh, that's MUCH better. I'd be delighted. That senator you've been looking at? He was more involved in his mistresses' death than he'd like to let on. If you check a little cabin up around Lake Trevor, you'll find enough evidence to hang him. It's in his sister's name."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"That's a third question. I don't owe you an answer for it, but I'm feeling expansive tonight. Because he's a naughty boy who won't follow orders, that's why."

"Alright."

"Now, do you want the answer to the second question?"

"Why I'm here? Yeah, might as well."

"You're here because I want you here." He stepped close, and his hand darted toward Mulder's crotch. Fox squeezed his eyes shut, braced for intense pain. He was sure Krycek was going to punch him in the balls. Instead the hand settled lightly on his fly, and stroked. "You're here because I want you. Here."

Shocked, Mulder opened his eyes. The gun was still tucked under his chin. Krycek was studying him closely. The fog drifted behind him, and around them both, obscuring everything else. It was as if they were floating in a void.

"You're kidding me, right?"

Krycek rubbed firmly. "Does it FEEL like I'm kidding?"

No, it felt damn serious. It felt...It felt...good.

"Get your hands off me." Even Fox recognized the lack of conviction in his tone.

"No." Alex continued rubbing and squeezing. Mulder started to get hard. Krycek felt the thickening, and purred. "Oh, so you ARE happy to see me. I'm so glad."

"I'm not gay."

"You just keep telling yourself that, if it makes it any easier for you. But I'll tell you a secret, Fox." He leaned against the FBI agent, and Mulder could feel his hard on pressing into his thigh. "A stiff cock doesn't care whose mouth it slides into."

The gun was withdrawn, and Alex pushed it up under his leather jacket, tucking it in his waistband at the small of his back. He could get to it easily, but it would be difficult for Mulder to snatch it.

Krycek reached between them, and Fox heard the rasp of a zipper being lowered, then another. Krycek's hand slipped inside his fly, big and warm, and worked his dick out into the moist, chill air.

*If I clip him under the chin, I might be able to knock him down long enough to run. But he could draw down on me. His aim wouldn't be too good in this fog, but even if he just fires randomly, there's a chance...And I could run straight off the pier in this mess...*

The thoughts skittering across his mind stopped abruptly as Krycek's hot, hard cock slid against Mulder's erection. Suddenly his mind was blank, except for the urgent desire for more of that delicious friction.

Alex seemed to read his mind, because he undulated his hips, thrusting against Fox in a slow, rocking motion. "Nothing to get angsty about, Mulder. Just a little frottage. God, I love that word. The French really have a way with language, don't you think?"

"You're crazy."

"I suppose you're right, from a clinical standpoint. But what's more sane than doing what gives you pleasure?" He pushed more strongly, humping against Fox. Fox's head fell back against the slick wall, and he whimpered. "Oh, and I AM enjoying this. But I want a little more."

He took a half step back, and Fox almost whimpered again at the loss of contact. Alex murmured, "God, this ground is scummy. I hope you appreciate this, Fox. I'm probably going to have to burn these jeans." He sank to his knees, gripped Mulder's hips, and took his cock into his mouth.

Fox gasped as he was enveloped what felt like heated wet satin. Alex was talented at this, and he took Mulder's entire length in one long gulp. Mulder felt Krycek's warm breath ruffle his pubic hair, his chin bump his balls. Fox scrabbled frantically at the wall behind him, nails screeching on metal.

Alex bobbed up and down. Occasionally on the backstroke he would pull entirely free of Mulder's prick, lashing the swollen, weeping head with his tongue before swallowing it again. Soon Mulder was trying to shove himself even deeper into the oral embrace, but Krycek was keeping him pinned. He groaned in frustration.

Krycek relented. He let go with one hand, reaching down to begin masturbating, and his grip on the other hip gentled into a caress. Fox buried his hands in Krycek's dark hair, holding him so he could fuck his mouth more strongly. Alex didn't protest or try to pull away. He just sucked harder, his hand moving more quickly.

Alex gave a groan, muffled by the flesh in his mouth, and thick white semen spurted from his cock, coating his hand. Mulder was close now. The sight almost brought him over the edge. What finally did it was when Alex jerked Mulder's his pants and boxers down, reached back, and roughly thrust a cream coated finger up his ass, pumping hard. Fox stiffened at the jolt of pleasure/pain, and came in Alex's mouth, screaming his pleasure. It was oddly muffled, the impassive fog seeming to absorb it.

Now Fox was grateful for the warehouse at his back, leaning against it heavily as his knees shook. Alex turned his head and spat, then got to his feet. Once again he pressed against a trembling Mulder. He pressed his mouth to Mulder's, sliding his tongue past unresisting lips, and Mulder tasted himself. After a moment or two of wet, thorough exploration, Alex pulled away and whispered, "You have a nice, full bodied flavor, Mulder." His hand slid down over Mulder's ass, spreading a film of cooling spunk. "Next time, I'll fuck you. You'll like that."

"Next time?"

Alex stepped back, zipping himself up. "Next time, Mulder." He grinned. "...on silent haunches, and then moves on." He was backing away from Mulder. The fog swirled in, obscuring him. The next time he spoke, he sounded far away, but he hadn't really had time to move that far, had he? "...back to crossroads."

Mulder stayed like that for a moment more, then pulled up his pants and refastened them with shaking fingers. He wiped his face, unable to tell if the beads of moisture were from the fog, or sweat.

Just when he thought he had a handle on Alex Krycek...Just when he thought that he might know how his mind worked, what made him tick...

"Back to crossroads." Fox breathed, and began to make his way back to his car.

* * *

After I posted 'Little Cat Feet', someone was kind enough to respond, and even kinder to mention that they hoped there would be a sequel. Well, I hadn't planned on it, but you never SAW such a vicious attack by a plot bunny!  
This is my second entry to the Slashing Mulder First Anneversary Contest, Weather Catagory. I dunno, there may even be others, if I can find good quotes. I believe this is going to turn into a Poetry series, anyway.  
Ah, my loyal public. You inspire me...

Title: Summer Redundant  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: Complete  
Criticism: Sure  
Archive: You bet  
Feedback:   
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, except maybe the hotel clerk, and he doesn't count, does he? The poem `Wanting Is-What?' is one of the great romantic poets, Robert Browning.  
Summary: Mulder gets stranded, and Krycek makes good on a promise.  
Notes: Best appreciated if you read my previous fic `Little Cat Feet', but can stand alone  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: Graphic m/m non consensual sex.

* * *

Summer Redundant

Wanting is--what?  
By Robert Browning

Wanting is--what?  
Summer redundant,  
Blueness abundant,  
Where is the blot?

The first indication that Mulder had that anything was wrong was the bang. It sounded like someone hiding under the car's hood had suddenly hit it with a baseball bat. The second indication was the cloud of steam that billowed from the edges to be blown back against his windshield. The third was the sudden, spectacular swoop of the needle on the temperature gage over into the danger zone, and the fourth, and final, was the car shuddering to a halt before he could pull it over onto the should.

Mulder swore quietly to himself, got out and put his shoulder to the doorframe, trying to push the rental off the pavement. After a moment of heaving, he swore again, reached in, and jerked the transmission into neutral. THEN it rolled.

*They had a compact available, but did I take it? Nooo, didn't want to get my legs cramped, 'cause the front seats in those tin cans never seem to move far enough back. No, ol' long legged Fox just HAD to get a big ass sedan.*

Grunting with the effort, he pushed till the car's front tires hit the slight drop off at the edge of the shoulder, and the car rolled with a bit less reluctance. He kept having to lean inside to struggle with the steering wheel, but he finally got the vehicle off the road.

He put it into park and sat back down for a minute, sideways in the driver's seat, legs angled out the door, and glared at the red light on the dash. HOT. "No shit."

With a sigh, he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket and flipped it open, hitting 911 on the speed dial...and got nothing. Fox stared at it for a moment, then shook it, and tried again. Still nothing. No dial tone, no buzz, no beep, no click. "No fucking way." The useless electronic gadget sailed through the air, rustling to the ground somewhere in the bushes.

Well, there was another phone gone, and wasn't it going to be fun explaining THIS one to Skinner. He could picture himself, sitting before the AD's desk, and almost hear Walter's growl as he said, "So what you're telling me is that you jettisoned a piece of Bureau issued electronics because you were PISSED OFF?!" Actually, he was almost looking forward to that encounter. Skinner's office was air conditioned.

He wiped his face, hands coming away filmed with sweat. He'd only been out of the air conditioning for about four, maybe five minutes, and there were already damp patches forming under his pits and around his collar.

Belatedly, he thought to swing his legs back inside the car and shut the door to trap whatever chill remained while he tried to decide what to do.

He'd come out to this remote part of West Texas to investigate a rash of cattle mutilations. Every few years they seemed to crop up. There was usually some sort of prosaic explanation for them, but he had to keep checking. These had been the result of a grudge among ranchers. The trip had been a total waste of time, now this.

Mulder peered through the windshield at the seemingly endless stretch of blacktop before him. Then he turned around and looked out the back window. Pretty much the same view. Nothing in sight but scrub bushes and an occasional distant stand of scraggly looking trees. Not even any power or telephone poles. *Aside from the highway, I'm seeing this land the same way the first settlers saw it.* Mulder thought. *That thought might inspire awe...if I didn't think I might just die of the heat.*

That was a real possibility. The temperature had been 98º at eight o' clock this morning. It had been climbing, and it was almost noon now. The heat index was probably over one hundred.

And it was at least thirty miles in either direction to anything passing for civilization. Might as well be a thousand.

The interior of the car was starting to heat up, and Fox knew he should get out of it. The temperature outside was bad, but he'd read somewhere that the temperature inside a car on a hot summer day could reach 215º in ten minutes, and it only took 220º degrees to boil water.

Reluctant to leave the shade, he got out. *Might as well check to see what happened. Like I don't already know.* He popped the hood, and went around the front to lift it. Sure enough, the underside was dripping with water. A quick inspection revealed a burst water hose.

*Damn. Even if I HAD a roll of duct tape that bastard is so shredded I probably couldn't get a seal.* He leaned in to get a closer look, bracing his hands...

...on the radiator. Pain flared in his hands, and he jerked back with a hiss. His palms were beginning to redden. *Well, isn't that charming? Now I'll waste more of my precious body moisture forming fucking BLISTERS!* Petulantly he kicked the tire, then had a bruised toe to curse about. Wearily he leaned against the side of the car, trying to decide what to do next.

Although he had many things to be worried about at that time, Fox found himself noticing how profoundly STILL it was out here. Silent. No car engines, now electric hums, no dogs barking, no distant natter of voices. Not even wind. The air didn't move. As dry as it was, the air should feel thin, but it didn't. Instead it felt heavy. It was almost a solid weight pressing against his skin. But maybe that was the sun. It lay over everything, thick and achingly bright and hot.

Mulder stared up at the sky, twisting his head to give the horizon a 360º scan, searching for some sign of clouds. Nothing, not even a wisp. It sure would be nice to have a cloud shadow roll over him right about now. But the sky was a clear blue expanse. It was sapphire right over his head, fading out to almost white at the edge of his vision.

This reminded him of something, the sky and the heat. What was it? A poem, maybe. Why the hell was he thinking of a poem right now, when he should be mentally reviewing desert survival tactics? *Because my mind works in weird and wonderful ways. Like a few months ago down at the docks. A fog thick as wool, and I was thinking of Carl Sandburg.*

Mulder shuddered suddenly, despite the heat. He didn't want to think about that night, not even if the reflection on mist and water and night would have been mentally cooling. Something else had happened in that cool, damp fog that had been anything BUT cool.

He closed his eyes briefly, remember the jab of steel under his chin, and the hot mouth on his cock. Alex Krycek had knelt before him on the scummy alleyway pavement and sucked him off, fog swirling around them both in phantasmagorical patterns.

It was Mulder's first, and only, homosexual experience. "No, it wasn't really a gay experience. It was an assault," he told himself firmly. "It's not like it was anything I had a choice in." A tiny, traitorous voice had occasionally whispered *Yeah, but it's not like you never THOUGHT of it, either.* Fox had quashed that little voice without much trouble. It had too much competition from his other obsessions, and he wasn't going to give it a chance to grow.

Krycek had left Fox with a promise that had cost the FBI agent a lot of rest in the past few weeks. And the scary thing was, Fox didn't know WHY he was losing sleep. He wanted to believe it was from apprehension, and delayed trauma. But he wasn't sure.

Mulder shook his head quickly, dispelling the thought. What WAS that poem? Another one that he'd memorized in high school, but this one wasn't coming back to him as easily as Cat Feet had.

"Summer redundant, Blueness abundant." Yep, that fit. As long as you considered that in this case 'redundant' didn't mean repetition, but instead meant more than is needed, desired, or required. And there was sure as hell an abundance of blue.

He heaved a sigh. Well, standing here moping wouldn't get him anything but a sunburn. He was going to have to start walking.

Fox opened the trunk and retrieved the pair of old, battered athletic shoes he'd brought along specifically for exploring cattle pastures. And a good thing it had been, too. He'd saved his new pair of Belvedere Adamos. Suckers had cost him over $185, and he wasn't about to risk them on cow patties. His wisdom was proved by the rather fragrant state of the battered Pumas. Well, ripe they might be, but they were much better suited to the walk ahead of him than the Italian lace ups.

Patrician nose wrinkled in disgust, Mulder changed shoes, locking his prized footwear in the trunk for safekeeping. He wasn't about to haul them along on his trek, but he didn't want to just leave them laying around for anyone who happened by to snatch.

As he started trudging up the road, he thought *Yeah, like I really need to worry about that. I didn't see a single car on the way out here, or back. These people must not go into town more than once a week.*

Mulder didn't hurry. Hurrying in this heat could be killing, he knew that. Of course, LINGERING in this heat couldn't possibly be much healthier, but those were the only two available choices.

After a few dozen yards, Mulder took off his jacket, draping it over his arm, and loosened his tie as he walked. He mentally cursed the Bureau dress code. Of course, he supposed that even the most lenient code wouldn't have allowed nothing but swim trunks, which right now seemed like the only even marginally comfortable choice.

Another few yards, and the tie was jerked off and stuffed in his back pocket. The top of his head felt like he was standing under a broiler, and he decided that he' better get something between it and the sun pronto. The only thing available was his jacket, so he reluctantly draped it over his head. It was almost like wearing a blanket, but if he wanted to avoid heat stroke for any length of time, that was what he had to do.

He walked. And walked. And wondered why the hell they had even bothered to lay a road out here in the wilderness when it seemed that he was the only one who was going to USE the fucker.

He quickly got off the pavement. Not because he was worried about being run over, fuck no. He probably could have left the rental parked astraddle the white line without worrying unduly about someone plowing into it. But it was like walking on a griddle. Heat just BAKED up off it.

The air up ahead seemed to shimmer with the rising thermal waves. And in the distance, the blacktop looked wet, and shiny. *Well, it might be SOFT from the heat, but not WET. No such luck.*

Mulder knew this from road trips he'd taken with his parents when he was a child. He used to love the way water would fountain up on either side when they drove quickly through a puddle. He'd spotted what looked like lovely, great washes of water stretching all the way across the road ahead of them, and had eagerly awaited the moment they would reach them. But that moment never came. As they approached, the shining silver would seem to simply melt away. When he'd finally remarked on this, his father had explained reflection, and optical illusions. It was fascinating, but it wasn't as good as a puddle.

*Huh. High school poetry, sexual ambiguity, and now heat mirages. Keep your mind on the situation at hand, Fox, and maybe you'll make it through.*

He glanced back at his car, and blinked. Damn, it didn't look like he'd gotten that far, and he felt like he'd been walking for an hour. This was going to be bad, very bad.

He kept walking. His shirt was plastered to him, as wet now with sweat as if someone had hit him with a Super Soaker. It DID help, a little. It would have been better if there was some sort of breeze to cool the moisture.

He could feel sweat running in rivulets down his legs, and his underwear was feeling swampy. He wished he dared to take off his shirt, but not under this sun. No point in getting second degree sunburn on any more of his body than he absolutely had to. He expected that his hands were going to end up reddened on the backs as well as the palms, but the suit jacket was sheltering his face.

How far had he gone now? He looked back at the car, and was surprised to see it reduced to not much more than a speck beside the road. So he HAD been making progress. He glanced back in the direction he was heading, and sighed. Yeah, but not NEARLY enough progress.

His legs were feeling heavy now. He scuffled occasionally, raising dry puffs of dust. Those tiny, gritty clouds were the only thing that moved in the air, besides himself. There weren't even any birds passing overhead. *For which I should be grateful, I suppose. At least that means there are no buzzards circling. Yet.*

The car was completely out of sight the next time he looked, and Mulder felt a stab of unease. Now there were no visible signs of man other than the road that ran beside him. And THAT might just have well been some hideously ancient artifact of a long dead civilization for all the good it did him.

One mile, two, three...

Mulder staggered, a sudden wave of light headedness sweeping over him, but he recovered before he could lose his balance. Not good, not good at all. He jerked his shirt open, not removing it, but needing even the faint breeze that would be caused by his forward motion, and continued.

*Okay, I'm still sweating. That's good. If I STOP sweating, then I REALLY worry. Then I could be going into heat stroke.* The body couldn't regulate it's temperature without sweat. Heat stroke victims' temp could rise to as much as 106º, and brain damage could result if it stayed that high for long. Brain damage, and death.

Mulder was tempted to go into the bushes for the little shade they might afford, but he knew that was a lethally stupid idea. By the side of the road, he at least had a CHANCE of being found. If he went off into the scrub, he would most likely die there, and they'd have to bring out the corpse sniffing dogs to locate his body, which would most likely have been visited by coyotes or weasels or gerbils, or whatever the hell else they had out here.

Nausea hit Mulder, and he added vomit to the cow shit streaking his shoes when he didn't quite lean far enough over. Damn. That pie and coffee had tasted a lot better this morning when he first encountered them. He wiped his face with his shirt tale, and wished desperately for water, now as much to rinse the taste from his mouth as to hydrate himself. He spat, before deciding that he'd better hang on to even that much moisture.

Once his belly had settled, he resumed his walk. There was no point in just standing there. He could die as easily down the road as he could next to a puddle of puke.

The dizziness hit him again, and this time he DID fall. He would have yelled at the pain when the gravel dug into his already tender palms, but he just didn't have the energy. He stayed on hands and knees for a moment, breathing heavily. It took him two tries to push up to his feet, but he did it.

Now he was weaving a little. The sun was no longer straight overhead, but it wasn't any weaker. How long had he been walking? Why hadn't he checked his watch when the water hose blew? Why was he worrying about this shit when he was probably going to die?

*Oh, this is sweet. This is SO fucking ironic. I survive extraterrestrial, alien bounty hunters, clones, vampires, werewolves, demons, nameless monsters, international conspiracies, every type of psychopath known to man, and some that are UNKNOWN, and I'm going to be killed by a piece of rubber tubing that wouldn't cost more than ten dollars in any Auto Zone in America.* He glanced up at the searing, empty sky. "You got a weird sense of humor, God. At least make the ground stay fucking STILL, huh? How'm I supposed to walk if it keeps heaving up and down?"

Apparently he wasn't supposed to keep walking, because he fell again. It took him longer to get up this time. He was tempted to just lie there. Things were seeming pretty purposeless, but that was what finally persuaded him to try again. Half way up, and he fell again, knees buckling. But the third try, he managed to struggle upright, and keep walking. He'd almost forgotten why by now.

His skin was starting to dry out again, and he wondered vaguely if that should bother him. It seemed like it should. "Blue in abundance," he sing-songed. "Summer redundant, redundant, redundant."

He heard something.

He thought that maybe he had actually been hearing it for a minute or so, but he really couldn't be sure, and didn't know if it mattered. He turned to look for the sound with vague curiosity.

There was movement in the distance. A speck on the black top was gradually growing larger. Losing interest, he turned and began to stagger on again. He didn't see the speck turn into a dark, late model van. He didn't pay it any more attention till it pulled up beside him, slowing. In fact, he didn't really notice it then. He kept shambling onward. Conscious thought was scrambled, and he was acting on animal survival instinct now. The primitive part of his brain didn't want to die, and was going to keep his body in motion till it was stopped, or collapsed.

It didn't get to the collapse stage. The van pulled over ahead of Mulder, gritting to a stop well off on the shoulder. Motor still running, the driver's side door opened, and a man got out and approached him. He halted right in front of Fox and stood observing the approaching FBI agent, hands on hips.

When Fox started to go around him, he caught his arm. "What the hell are you doing to yourself NOW?"

Mulder regarded him with dull eyes. "Summer redundant," and tried to pull away.

"What?" A cool hand reached under the suit jacket and pressed to Mulder's forehead. Mulder closed his eyes, making a mewling sound, and leaned into the touch, falling against the man. He was caught and held in strong arms. "Oh, fuck. You're burning up."

Mulder was dragged over to the van. The side panel was slid open, and he was heaved halfway inside, unable to mount the steps. The inside was blessedly cool, the air conditioner humming efficiently in the front. Mulder rolled on his belly and crawled the rest of the way into the van. He heard someone follow him, and the van shook lightly on it's shocks as their weight settled in. Then the panel slid closed, and the interior was dim. The windows must have been tinted as dark as the law allowed.

The jacket was removed from his head, and his open shirt was stripped away. He heard a rattling, and rolled his head to see a bright orange plastic cooler being dragged closer. The lid was opened, but he closed his eyes, too tired to be very interested. There was a swishing sound.

The water that hit his back was so cold that it hurt. When the icy wet towel landed on him, he cried out and struggled weakly. Someone cuffed him lightly on the head. "Stop it! I have to get your body temperature down fast. It's only heat exhaustion right now, but it's close to heat stroke."

The frigid wetness moved over his back, his neck, his shoulders. "You're so hot those first drops almost sizzled on your skin." There were more swishing noises, and he was rolled over.

He closed his eyes to avoid the water he knew was coming. This time the chill assaulted his chest, face, throat, and belly. He started to shiver. "Summer redundant," he gasped.

His pants were pulled off, and the towel stroked his legs, wiping away the salt that had begun to crust from his drying sweat. The voice said, "Summer redundant, huh? Blueness abundant. Robert Browning. I like your taste in poetry."

Again and again the towel swabbed his torso. Fox squirmed, his nipples puckering with the cold, whimpering, and whoever it was tsked, straddling his legs to hold him still. "Quit trying to get away from the cold. This is necessary."

"It's enough." Fox reached out blindly, trying to push them away.

His hands were gripped, and something smooth and silky was wrapped around his wrists, binding them together. "If you won't stay still..." It was jerked tight, and he winced at the pressure on the reddened skin. "And it's enough when I SAY it's enough."

The wash continued for a few more minutes, and Fox's agitation slowly faded. His mind was starting to clear a little. Yes, this was necessary. Perhaps his rescuer's tactics were a little aggressive, but they were effective.

Again the cool hand pressed to his forehead, stroking back damp hair. "Okay, your temp is going down. I think you're going to be alright."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, Fox."

*Fox? He knows my name?* It was the first coherent thought he'd had in a while. Had he been missed? Had someone been sent out to find him? It hardly seemed likely, but what else could it be? In any case, he was grateful. He opened his eyes, and gasped.

"Alex!"

Krycek looked down at him, with almost gentle amusement in his eyes. "Well, who did you THINK it was? A fucking St. Bernard? Man, you WERE out of it. And you're still not entirely out of the woods. You need a little re-hydration."

He moved off of Mulder, and Fox immediately tried to kick him. Krycek dodged the blow easily, catching Mulder's ankle. Mulder noticed, in a peripheral manner, that his shoes and socks had been removed somewhere along the line.

That didn't concern him. What DID concern him was the big ass knife that had appeared in Krycek's hand, and was even now hovering over his crotch. Fox got very, very still.

"That's better. It's terribly bad manners to attack someone who's trying to help you, Fox."

Fox didn't move, but he snarled, "You never did anything in your life that wasn't for your own sake."

Alex shrugged. "I won't deny that. But in this case, you benefit, too. So just stay calm, hm? And I'll put this away." Fox glowered at him. Alex shook his leg. "Well?"

Grudgingly, "Alright."

"Fine." Alex dropped Mulder's foot and slid the knife into a scabbard that was hung on his belt. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. Re-hydration."

He moved into the front of the van and started rummaging in the glove compartment. Fox reached stealthily for the door handle. He should be able to open it, even with his hands bound (*with my own tie* he thought sourly).

Without even looking back, Alex called, "Fox, if you open that door, I'll hamstring you and push you back outside. My patience is NOT infinite." Making a grumbling noise, Mulder settled back onto the floor.

He came back and sat beside Mulder, carrying a bottle of Evian, and several tiny white paper packets. "I don't know where the hell you thought you were going to go in this heat, barefoot and practically starkers."

Alex uncapped the bottle, tore open several of the packs, and poured white grains into the bottle, recapped it, and shook it vigorously. He grabbed Mulder's bound wrists, making the agent wince again as the tie chaffed the already irritated skin, and pulled him up into a sitting position. He uncapped the bottle, and held it toward Fox.

Fox leaned back, eyeing it suspiciously. "What did you put in it?"

Krycek snorted. "You think I'm trying to drug you? Fox, please! Give me more credit. I'd hardly spike it right in front of you." He showed one of the empty packs to Mulder. "It's just salt. You sweated too much out, and you need to replace it, to keep the fluids in. You know, they don't just GIVE you these at the fast food restaurants any more. You have to ASK for them."

"Fucking cost control."

Alex grinned. "Yeah. Fucking corporate America. Little sips, you don't want to bloat."

Fox couldn't hold the bottle with his hands tied, so Alex tipped it up to his mouth. Suddenly realizing how parched he felt, Alex's admonition flew from his mind, and he tried to gulp. Krycek pulled the bottle away. "I said sip!"

When Fox tried to do the same thing the next time the bottle was offered, Alex took a firm grip on his hair and held his head still. Fox quickly stopped trying to pull away when he twisted it painfully, and he quietly allowed the other agent to feed him the water at a leisurely pace.

When it was empty, Krycek tossed the plastic bottle into the back of the van. "I had no idea you were so greedy, Fox." The grip loosened, Alex's fingers sliding through the thick brown hair. Fox jerked back, glaring.

"How did you find me?"

"It didn't take a master tracker, once I passed your car. I mean, it was pretty much a straight shot..." Mulder was giving him a disgusted look, and Krycek snickered. "Oh, alright. I've been shadowing you for days. I'm rather proud of myself that you didn't notice. It isn't easy tailing someone in all this emptiness."

"Why?"

Alex shrugged. "You have your obsessions. I have mine." Alex took hold of Fox's bound wrists and peered at his palms. "What did you do THIS on?"

"Radiator."

Alex shook his head. "For an intelligent man, you sometimes pull the stupidest stunts. Does it hurt?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

"Rude." Alex went to the glove compartment again, and returned carrying a small plastic bottle. "I guess I shouldn't fuss at you about being unprepared. I didn't bring a first aid kit. This hand lotion will have to do, but it has aloe vera in it."

He slathered the pale green, medicinal smelling liquid on Mulder's hands, back and palms, rubbing it in gently. It felt incredibly soothing, but Fox wasn't about to tell HIM that. Alex seemed to know, though, because he said, "You're welcome. Feeling better now?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Alex sat back on his heels, regarding Fox with a bright, green gaze. "Fox...that poem? Do you recall all of it?"

Mulder frowned. What significance was there to the poem? "No, just Summer redundant, Blueness abundant."

"It's from a very short poem by Robert Browning. It goes `Wanting is- what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant. Where is the blot?'"

He reached out, and his hands settled on Fox's chest. Mulder's skin, which had tightened with the cold, had relaxed. But now Krycek's fingers settled on Fox's nipples, stroking, and they began to stiffen again. "Wanting is-what?" he murmured.

"No." Fox tried to scoot out of reach, but Krycek moved over him, straddling his thighs and pushing him back down. "Alex, goddammit, NO!"

"You owe me, Mulder." He tweaked the firm, fleshy buds, and Mulder groaned. "After all, since I saved your ass, it's only fair that I get a turn at it. And besides..." He leaned down and licked Fox's throat. "I promised. Remember?"

Fox trembled. Oh, God, he remembered. He remembered the hot breath in his ear, the feel of sticky cum starting to dry on his softening cock, and the dull ache in his ass from where Alex had finger fucked him during the blow job. And the words. "Next time, I'll fuck you. You'll like that. Next time, Mulder."

"It's next time."

Mulder thrashed wildly, unable to get enough leverage to throw him off, and suddenly the shiny blade of the knife was lying against his face, and again he went still. "Fox, baby," Alex purred. "Please. I REALLY don't want to have to mark up that pretty face. Though..." The blade turned slightly, just enough for the edge to scrape the faint stubble on Mulder's cheek. "...a tiny scar right about here would be tres sexy. Will you be still?" No reply. Mulder just stared at him, wide eyed and silent. "I'll take that as a yes. Now..."

The tip of the blade traced a path down Fox's torso, not quite pressing hard enough to break the skin. It lingered on his flat abdomen, stroking back and forth almost idly. Fox lay back, staring up into Alex eyes. Alex shifted his grip on the knife, holding it gripped in his fist, as if prepared to stab. Then he slid the blade under the waistband of Fox's boxers.

Fox stopped breathing as the tip moved lower. He felt the dull back of the blade sliding through his pubic hair, beside his prick. His prick, which, to his horror, was beginning to harden.

Fox cried out as Alex suddenly jerked his hand. "Shh." The knife split the cotton of the boxers, parting the cloth cleanly, and Alex ripped the slit down the last couple of inches, through that leg's hem. Then he repeated the process on the other side, and removed the ruined garment, leaving Fox naked and shaking on the van floor. Fox was almost absurdly grateful when the weapon was returned to it's sheath.

Hating the pleading tone in his voice, Fox said, "Krycek, don't do this."

"Why not?" Alex glided his hands over the smooth skin of Fox's chest, down his belly. His lips grazed first one straining nipple, then the other. His tongue dabbed at the hardened flesh delicately.

"I don't want it."

Alex chuckled against Mulder's chest, and Fox felt a large, warm hand enclose his semi erect cock and begin stroking. "The hell you say. Then I suppose you're getting hard because you hate this."

"I do!"

Alex nibbled and sucked at the tiny brown peaks, his hand moving lazily. "Mmm, yeah, it sure seems like it. If this is what hate does to you, Fox, I just GOTTA make you hate me some more."

Alex knelt back up, and pulled his T-shirt off, then unsnapped and opened his jeans. He pulled them down a little on his hips, exposing the top of a tangle of dark pubic hair, and the base of a thick cock. For a moment he just knelt there, fingers combing through the curls and teasingly grazing his own swelling flesh. Mulder, trapped between his legs, couldn't help but watch.

Alex licked his lips, and slowly pushed the jeans farther down his hips, revealing more of the pale column. Fox's eyes grew round. It was...big. Finally it sprang free, wavering before him, and Alex pushed his pants the rest of the way down, rocking on first one knee, then the other to remove them, leaving himself as naked as Mulder.

Krycek gripped Mulder's cock with his right hand, and his own with his left, and slowly began to squeeze and stroke. "Mm, you have a beautiful dick, Fox. I'm glad I can finally get a good look at it." He grinned seductively, his thumb spreading clear pre-cum over Mulder's rosy cock head. "I already know how good it tastes."

"You son of a bitch," Fox whispered helplessly.

"Sticks and stones. I've been cursed more creatively, but never more sincerely." He moved off to kneel beside Fox. "Bend your knees, put your feet flat on the floor, and spread your legs." No response. Krycek pinched the tender skin on the inside of his thigh sharply, wringing a yelp from him.

"C'mon, Fox. I want to prepare you. You don't WANT to get ripped up, do you? I'm assuming that this is your first time?" He watched the crimson tide sweep up Mulder's face. "Thought so. Losing your anal cherry can be uncomfortable to start with. If you make me mount you dry, it'll hurt like a bastard, but if you let me get you greased and opened, you might even enjoy it."

The gritting sound of Mulder grinding his teeth was audible even over the engine and air conditioner. Alex sighed. "Don't think of it as co-operating, Fox. Look on it as a survival tactic." Slowly Fox assumed the ordered position. "Good boy."

Alex moved to kneel between his wide open knees, and Fox felt horribly exposed. The other man took the bottle of aloe vera lotion again, and squeezed some into his hand. Then he reached down and smoothed the liquid into the crack of Mulder's ass. Fox shuddered, both from the coolness, and from the intimacy of the touch.

"Lift your ass a little." Again Fox obeyed the direction, miserable. He felt his cheeks spread, and more lotion was worked into the crease of his ass. Alex's fingers rubbed around the ring of Mulder's anus, massaging the tight flesh.

"Gotta get you nice and open." He spoke softly. "Otherwise it would be like trying to fuck my way through a brick wall." He pressed lightly, and Fox stiffened, his spine going rigid. "No! Don't do that. Relax, Fox. It you just relax, it will hardly hurt at all. You may not believe this, but I CAN make it good for you."

"You're a damn liar." But Fox made a conscious effort to relax, making himself go as limp as possible.

"We'll see if you still feel that way when I get to your prostate." Alex pushed, and slid one greased finger into Fox's tight anal passage. Fox whined quietly, "Sh, baby. I'll give you a minute to get used to it."

Alex waited, with what Fox had no way of knowing was amazing patience. When he felt the muscles begin to unclench, he began to work the digit in and out slowly. Fox stared up at the ceiling blankly, his breath coming more rapidly.

God, it felt so weird. It had hurt, at first. But now the pain had faded to a dull ache, and was gradually being replaced by warmth, and a sense of fullness that was not entirely unpleasant. Still, he again made protesting noises when Alex eased a second finger in beside the first and began scissoring them apart.

"Just stop it, you big baby." The words were chiding, but the tone was oddly tender. "Be good, and I'll make you feel nice." He pushed more deeply, crooking his fingers.

Suddenly Krycek's fingers glided over a sensitive spot, a little bump of flesh deep inside, and Fox felt an explosion of pleasure. He jerked, crying out. "Ah." Krycek's tone was triumphant. "There we are." He rubbed again, sending another spasm of almost unbearable ecstacy through Mulder's body.

"Stop it, Alex!" Fox gasped. "Please! I can't stand it." His legs collapsed, and Alex's probing digits were pushed out.

"Oh, no you don't! Not now that I've got you going." Alex moved in closer, hefting Fox's legs up and draping his knees over his shoulders. He reached back down and found the loosened ass hole, and pushed his fingers back inside, three of them now, tightly bunched. He continued to massage Mulder's prostate till the FBI agent was reduced to a quivering, whimpering mass. His swollen cock was twitching against his belly, leaking a generous puddle of pre-seminal fluid.

Alex finally paused, withdrawing his fingers from the clasp of Fox's body. He dragged his jeans closer, and dug in the pocket till he extracted a small foil pack. Ripping it open with his teeth, he got out the condom and rolled it down over his own massive erection. Then he ran is hand through the clear, slick pool on Mulder's belly and smeared the slick liquid generously over his latex sheathed cock.

"You know, I wasn't planning on this, Fox. Oh, I WAS planning on this, but not here and now. I thought I'd probably snatch you out of the parking lot in a day or two. But, well, this was just too good an opportunity to pass up, wasn't it? You wandering along in the hot, hot sun, shirt open, a little dazed, helpless..." He moved suddenly, ramming full length into Fox's ass. Mulder stiffened in shock, shrieking. Alex fucked him with short, hard stabs, "JUST...SO...FUCKING...GORGEOUS!"

After the initial, violent lunge, Alex settled in for a slow, hard, serious fuck. He stared down, watching his prick slide in and out of the tight, puckered opening, relishing the little moans and whimpers that his reluctant lover made.

Fox's erection had flagged a little with the sudden pain, and Alex wasn't going to have that. Making sure his victim's legs were seated firmly, Alex reached down and started stroking Mulder again, working his prick gently. "You're gonna enjoy this, too, Fox. I'm going to make you cum like you never have before."

Fox turned his head away, closing his eyes. He could feel tears of humiliation and pain squeezing out through his lashes. "No." It sounded pathetic.

Alex ignored the denial, continuing his manipulations. "You're so tight, baby. I knew you would be, but, Christ, THIS! And hot...oh, you're better than anything I've ever had. I can hardly wait till you're WILLING. THAT will be a mind numbing experience."

Fox's breath caught on a sob. "Bastard! Never..." Alex grinned, changing the angle of Mulder's hips so that his cock head caressed Mulder's prostate on each stroke, forcing out tiny, reluctant gasps. "No...never will...never..." He stiffened suddenly, legs hooking strongly on Krycek's shoulders, and came with a hot gush.

"Oh, yeah, baby," Alex crooned, his thrusts speeding up. "Yeah, yeah, YEAH!" With a grunt, he buried himself full length in Mulder's bowel, forcing Fox's knees back almost to his shoulders, and went still except for a massive, full body shudder.

The condom caught and held Krycek's sperm, but Fox felt him ejaculate, the solid cock that was splitting him pulsing like a separate, living thing. Alex threw back his head, eyes rolling upward, his handsome face locked in a grimace of fulfilled lust. Finally he sighed, and moved Mulder's legs down off his shoulders, pulling his softening cock free.

Mulder cried out in sudden pain, left leg jerking as a massive cramp struck his left thigh. Alex understood, and immediately began to massage and pummel the knotted flesh till it relaxed again, leaving Fox even more breathless. "Sorry. Though some of that was probably due to the heat exhaustion, too."

Fox stared at him, and said weakly, "You...you're apologizing `cause I got a CRAMP? Kinda got your order of significance screwed, don't you?"

Krycek took the still damp towel and began to clean Fox. "Yeah." He cocked his head. "You don't think I'm sorry I fucked you, do you?"

"RAPED me."

"Yeah, well, semantics. You say potato, I say po-tah-to." He wiped the puddle of cum off Mulder's belly, one eyebrow raised significantly. "Anyway, like the poem says, where's the blot? I wanted you, I took you, we both enjoyed it. You just don't want to admit it. Because if you DO..." He leaned back over Mulder, his sensuous mouth a scant half inch from the other man's lips. "If you DO, then you'll have to admit how much YOU wanted it, too. You shouldn't be ashamed of wanting me, Fox."

Fox opened his mouth to deny it, and found Alex's tongue sweeping in. Again there was the gentle, thorough exploration. This time, before it ended, Fox was sucking on the warm, wet bit of flesh.

Alex pulled away, chuckling. "That's my Fox. I'll get you trained yet."

He rummaged in the plastic cooler and came up with another bottle of water. Helping Mulder sit up, he tipped it to his lips. "Drink, pretty man."

Thirsty, Fox swallowed greedily. He had drunk half of it before he noticed the taste. He jerked his head back, water dribbling down his chin, and gave Krycek and almost wounded look. Alex smiled. "Yes, THAT one was drugged."

It was fast acting, whatever it was. The darkness started to close in quickly. As it swept over him, Fox heard Alex say soothingly, "Now, don't be so outraged. I had to have SOME way to get you back to civilization without you kicking up a fuss..."

***********************************************

Fox drifted back to consciousness under smooth sheets, with cool air moving across his body. In fact, he felt a little chilled: something he had at one point during his ordeal given up hope of ever felling again. He drew the covers up higher on his body, and slitted his eyes open carefully.

It was a motel room, there was no mistaking the bland, generic furnishings and decoration. If nothing else, the chained down television would have alerted him to that fact.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the half closed bathroom door. Fox lay motionless, listening, but he heard no other noise in the room but the hum of the air conditioner. No breathing, no movement. He was alone.

He sat up cautiously, and switched on the bedside lamp. This wasn't the room he'd rented, it was nicer. He moved out of the bed, and winced. His ass ached. It hadn't been a nightmare.

Fox examined himself in the lamp light. He felt refreshed, and there was no dust and crusted sweat or...or bodily fluids. Krycek must have sponged him off. His hands were bandaged, a faint medicinal smell drifting around the clean gauze pads taped to his palms. Iodine had been painted on the other scratches that decorated his knees and forearms from where he had fallen.

Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, surveying the room. His suit, which looked like it had been brushed, was hanging neatly on the clothing rod. A different pair of sneakers, a CLEAN pair, sat underneath it. There was even a pair of boxer shorts, still wrapped in plastic, on the dresser.

On the night stand next to Fox was a small insulated pitcher, a plastic cup, and two sealed envelopes, labeled 1 and 2. Fox was tempted, through sheer spite, to open them in the wrong order, but he didn't.

He ripped open envelope 1, and shook out two aspirins and a piece of paper. The note read, "Fox, thank you for a lovely time. These should help any residual aches. Please note the brand name stamped on them. You don't have to worry that they're anything hinky. Alex"

Fox grunted, poured a cup of water, then hesitated. He set the glass back down and dry swallowed the pills, then opened envelope 2.

This one held only a postcard. It showed a stretch of roadway that looked eerily like the one Mulder had wandered beside. You could almost feel the heat baking up off the black top. He turned it over and read, "...and you could have taken them with water, you sweet little paranoid. The water is clean." Mulder sighed, and sipped the water. The note continued. "Call the desk. Just push the red button. Until next time, my poetic friend. Your lover, Alex."

The piece of pasteboard trembled in Mulder's hand. He set it aside, and lifted the phone receiver to his ear, punching the red button.

"Desk." The voice was polite and cheerful.

"This is room..." Mulder looked at the number scrawled on the label on the phone's dial, "Room 116."

"Oh, yes sir! Triple A delivered your car about a half hour ago, Mr. Mulder. We have the keys at the desk, pick them up any time you like."

"Where am I?"

The voice sounded less sure. "You...you're in the Marfa Holiday Inn, sir. Are you alright? You're friend said you weren't feeling well."

"What did this friend look like?"

"Um," The clerk was clearly confused. "Well, he...he was a rather handsome man. Dark hair, big smile. Really, really green eyes."

"Okay, thanks."

"No problem." The voice was back to cheerful.

Mulder snorted softly as he hung up. "Easy for you to say."

He turned the postcard over in his hands several times, staring at it, then read it again, particularly the last few lines below the signature.

"Wanting is--what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant, Where is the blot?"

He rubbed his face. Propping his elbows on his knees, he rested his chin in his hands, staring at nothing in particular, murmuring, "Where is the blot? Where is the blot?"

The End

* * *

Title: like a perhaps hand  
Author: Scribe  
Status: Finished  
Series: Part of 'Poetic'/'Weather' series  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: none, really. No sex, but Alex/Fox shipping.  
Archive: Ask, I may say yes.  
Criticism: Yes  
Feedback:   
Disclaimer: Not mine. You know the drill.  
Warnings: none  
Rating: Mm... PG-13, for language.  
Notes: Entry in the Slashing Mulder 1st Anniversary Contest, Weather

* * *

like a perhaps hand  
By Scribe

Spring is like a perhaps hand  
(which comes carefully  
out of Nowhere)arranging  
a window, into which people look(while  
people stare  
arranging and changing placing  
carefully there a strange  
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully  
spring is like a perhaps  
Hand in a window  
(carefully to  
and from moving New and  
Old things, while  
people stare carefully  
moving a perhaps  
fraction of flower here placing  
an inch of air there) and

without breaking anything.  
e.e. cummings

Ask me if I believe in Fate, with a capital F, and I'd be hard pressed to answer. I don't really WANT to. I like to think that mankind has some say in what happens to it, some individual choice. Some free will. But about some things... Maybe some things ARE meant to happen. I wouldn't have believed this a few years ago.

But that was before Alex Krycek, AKA Ratboy.

I'm trying to forget him, but he isn't making it easy. After what we've been through... The betrayal, the lying, the violence, the numerous ass kickings I've administered... You'd think he'd avoid me, right? I mean, he KNOWS that just the sight of him makes me want to... to...

I really don't want to think about him right now. It's spring again, I'd like to enjoy it a little. It's one of the first really warm days, and, for a wonder, it's dry.

I take a walk out by the park, enjoying the softness of the air, the rustle of newly leafed trees. There's a place I really like, a bookstore. In the fine weather, they have tables out on the side walk, and you can take a cup of coffee out there, and test drive a book or two before you buy.

The weather is finally decent enough for them to be doing this again, and I drop by. I want to get my mind off the constant irritant of Krycek, and surely this will do it. Sunshine, warm breeze, open air, good coffee, and a good book. That should be enough to sweep out the dark corners of my mind, at least temporarily.

I get my cup of coffee, and pick over the selection of books piled on a stand just in front of the big front window. Mostly 'summer reads' already: big, sexy, glitzy books. Self help books, new age philosophies... I have enough weirdness in my life, thank you very much.

I've almost given up hope when I run across the little volume of e e cummings. I start to smile immediately. That old iconoclast, disdainer of punctuation and capitalization. He had been a fresh breeze in the poetic world. He was just what I needed now.

I sat at the table closest to the window and opened the little volume, flipping pages and greeting familiar verses like old friends. I read about anyone, who lived in a pretty how town, and Buffalo Bill, who rode a watersmooth-silver stallion, and was a handsome man. The warm spring wind moved against me, dry. Not like it had been up on the roof of the J. Edgar Hoover building that time. The time that Alex had talked to me about forming new attachments. "She's gone, Mulder. I'm here."

And I hadn't wanted to think of him, but there he was again. Well, now HE was gone, and Scully was back.

Was THAT Fate?

*Spring is like a perhaps hand, (which comes carefully out of Nowhere), arranging a window.* That was sort of like Fate, I guess. A perhaps hand coming carefully out of Nowhere, arranging things. People don't pay enough attention to poetry. It has a lot to say, something for every situation and occasion in the universe. But sometimes it doesn't tell you what you want to hear, what you are comfortable with.

*arranging and changing placing, carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here)and changing everything carefully.* A known thing. My place in the world. My wants, and desires... I thought I knew them. Then Alex, most DEFINITELY a strange thing, a changing thing. After Krycek, I found myself questioning things I hadn't even been aware were open to question. Things about myself.

*carefully to and from moving New and Old things.* Krycek, and Scully. New, and old. Dangerous but interesting, and safe, familiar.

*carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there.* Yes, it had been tiny things at first. The way I noticed that the scent of leather seemed to hang around him, even when he was in the Bureau's dark suit uniform. The slight smirk that lurked at the back of those remarkable green eyes. The continual AMUSEMENT I seemed to afford him. But, and this was REALLY hard to understand, the sense that, whatever else he felt about me, there was always a kernel of respect hidden somewhere in there. It makes it harder to hate him, even after all he's done.

The spring breezed comes again, and I suddenly freeze despite the warmth. A delicate scent drifts to me, over my shoulder, and I can feel my nostrils flaring, sifting it. Leather, cologne... "Krycek?"

A carnation is tossed over my shoulder, landing on the open book of poetry. A second later Alex Krycek drops into the chair beside me, grinning. "e e cummings, Mulder? I thought Teasdale was your favorite."

"I should just shoot you right now and get it over with. That's where this is heading, anyway."

"Oh, not necessarily, Mulder. Not necessarily. There are three responses in relationships like ours, the three Fs. Fight, Flee, or Fuck. I'd rather not fight you, and neither one of us is a runner." His grin was lascivious. "What choice does that leave us?"

I grit my teeth, hanging on to the table for dear life to keep from knocking him out of his seat. And he knows it. "Why don't you just relax, Mulder? You're not going to fight me today." He glanced around. "Not out here in public, anyway. Not on such a gorgeous day." He closed his eyes briefly, tipping his face up to the sun, and my God, he looks...

I give myself a mental shake. This is Ratboy, the traitor, the killer.

*The one who knows me... NO! He doesn't. It's all his mind games.* "What do you want, Krycek?"

He slits his eyes at me. "Do I have to want anything?" I stare at him, and he responds with a wry grimace. "Well, of course I do. That's ONE thing you've realized about me, Mulder. I always have a reason for what I do. But the reason today is harmless. I just wanted to see you again. I miss you."

"Bull shit."

He shrugs. "Perhaps a touch sentimental, but there it is. I can't help it, Fox." I flinch at the use of my first name. I don't offer the privilege of it's use to many people. And it... does things to me to hear it rolling off Alex Krycek's perfect, pouting lips.

"I can't stay for long, but I needed my Mulder fix. I just had to listen to you growl, and look at that sulky mouth, and think about kissing it till you..."

I slam the book closed, and his smile doesn't falter, but his eyes are shrewd. "Come on, Mulder. It wouldn't disturb you so much if something wasn't there. Why don't you just admit it, and save us some time? I've been awfully patient with you, you know."

"Admit that... that I want to destroy myself? That's what it would be, giving in to you, Krycek. Nothing less than the destruction of my sense of self, if not my fucking SOUL."

He sighed. "Mulder, Mulder. You really should have gone on the stage, you have such drama in your nature. It's only change, Mulder, and it doesn't HAVE to be destructive."

He gets up. Before I can react, he's reached out and brushed the hair up off my forehead in an oddly gentle gesture. I snap my head back, away from his touch. But this time he doesn't leave it at that. Perhaps emboldened by the people seated at the other small tables around us, he touches me again.

His hand snakes around, gripping the back of my skull firmly, he leans down...

And then he's kissing me. And I'm so startled, I can't move. *That's why I'm so still, it has to be.* His lips move on mine, warm and firm. I feel the faint rasp of stubble, where his morning shave is just beginning to grow out, and the scent of him fills me as I feel the wet, delicate dab of his tongue...

And he pulls back, and I'm swaying slightly, and staring. His smile is gentle now. "Read the last line of that poem, Fox." He turns and moves down the street, not hurrying, and I lose sight of him, because I'm facing the sun, and he seems to disappear right into the warm spring glow.

Numbly, I glance down at the book, moving aside the carnation. Unthinkingly, I touch it to my cheek as I read the final line of the verse.

*without breaking anything.*

* * *

Title: The Essence That Is You  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: WIP  
Series/Sequel: Part of my 'Poetic' series  
Criticism: Yes  
Archive: Yes, let me know where  
Feedback: Yes.   
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Chris Carter. No profit made, no copyright infringement.  
Summary: Krycek reflects on his relationship with Mulder as he prepares to leave for a short time.  
Notes: This takes place later than the other stories in the series, when Mulder and Krycek have formed a deep bond.  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: graphic, but loving, m/m sex

* * *

The Essence That Is You

At Your Pleasure  
By Frank Labatay

Your soft, warm skin responds to the touch of my fingertips;  
eyes widen and lips swell in anticipation.  
Knowing that you love my touch just as I desire your closeness  
is an end in itself, my raison d'etre.  
... holding your lithe form close,

I am a man.  
You look into my eyes and kiss me back ...  
I understand the true joy of a couple in love.  
Bringing you happiness fills my heart,  
increases my need to share our secrets and intimate pleasures.  
Together or apart, near or far ...  
know that I love the essence that is you.

Alex

I told him before that he would come to me, eventually. He didn't believe it. Poor Mulder, so eager to believe some fairy tales, so reluctant to acknowledge some facts of life. He was mine from the moment we met. I think he knows that now...

"Never." How many times has he used that word to me? It was almost a litany in the middle and final time before he succumbed to the inevitable. "Never going to want you, never going to need you, never going to let you..."

He still says "never", but in different context now. "Never knew, never guessed, never let go, never stop..." Much more satisfying invocations of that word.

It took a long time, and the road was not smooth. I had to be stern with him at times. I had to hurt him, in order to bring him to the place where he broke through his doubts and fears. Sometimes we hurt the ones we love, all for their own good.

And it IS love, despite what the others, in his world and mine, might say. I know that Scully and Skinner have tried to pull him away from me: her with clinical analysis of my admittedly twisted psyche, him with simple disgust and moral outrage. They haven't succeeded. They won't succeed. He needs me, as much as I need him.

Like now, as we prepare to make love. He's naked already, on the bed, on his belly. He's pillowed his face on his arms, turned away. In some ways, he's still shy with me, even after all we've been through, all that has been taken, and given.

I sit beside him, shirtless, and stroke the long expanse of his back, running my hand down the shallow groove that marks his spine, and I whisper to him, words from the poem I printed off the Internet this morning. It made me think of him. "Your soft, warm skin responds to the touch of my fingertips."

He shivers slightly. I put my hand in his soft hair, gently but firmly turning his face toward me. The hazel eyes are already darkening with passion. His mouth is slightly bruised, lips tender from the ravenous kisses I bestowed before allowing him to strip. "Eyes widen and lips swell in anticipation." I kiss him again, and his lips part eagerly. I remember when I had to hold a gun to his head to win even this small favor. He hasn't been that reluctant for a long time.

I explore the honey sweet interior of his mouth lazily, licking and probing till his tongue writhes in answer, seeking it's place in my own mouth. I welcome it, sucking and biting the tempting morsel.

When he has to pull away for breath, I again let the poet's words speak for me. "Knowing that you love my touch just as I desire your closeness is an end in itself, my raison d'etre."

He surprises me a little when he speaks the next lines, his voice husky. "Holding your lithe form close, I am a man."

I'm touched, and thrilled. He's overcome another obstacle, because this troubled him. He somehow felt that being with me made him less of a man. The homosexual aspect of it was difficult for him at first, but the idea that he could give himself to someone who had hurt him, and betrayed him... That was nearly impossible for him to beat down.

Yes, I did that. I regret it, but it happened. I was different back then. Well, a little. I was owned by the Consortium, I was their creature. If they said hurt him, that was what I had to do. But those days are gone now. Thank God he realizes this, and has forgiven.

As I lean over him, bemused by this revelation, he continues speaking, paraphrasing the poem, but meaning the words. "I look into your eyes and kiss you back ... I understand the true joy of a couple in love."

He lifts himself, his lips seeking mine, and we kiss again. I feel something press into my palm, and look down to find that he has given me the tube of lubricant. His long fingers work at my belt buckle, draw down my fly. He looks into my eyes and says softly, "Just yourself tonight, Alex. I want to really FEEL you inside me."

I stroke his cheek. "Are you sure? I should open you a little first."

He shakes his head, biting that full lower lip that has always driven me crazy. "No. Just your dick tonight. Please?"

I smile. Now, how on EARTH could any man say no to THAT? I open the tube and squeeze out the cool, clear gel. I'm already hard. I was hard from the moment I stepped out of my car on the way to his apartment. He does that to me.

He watches as I slick the greasy substance on my rigid prick, smiling when he sees how much extra I slather on the head. He murmurs, "If you're not careful, you're going to be sliding out on the backstroke."

"If I remember correctly, you're tight enough to hold me in." Again he shivers. I reach over with my anointed hand and smooth some of the lube on the thick, hard cock that is twitching against one long thigh. "There you are, love. That will make things a little nicer for you."

"You're so good to me." There is only a little irony in the words, and it's gentle.

He gets on his hands and knees, but I push down on the base of his spine, urging him back onto his stomach. "If I'm going to fuck you without stretching you first, I'm going to do it shallowly." He starts to protest, and I smack him on the butt, drawing a yelp. "No argument."

"Yes sir."

I caress the slightly pinked flesh. "Anyway, you'll like it. I'll hit your prostate more often." I smack the other cheek, and he yelps again.

"What was THAT for?"

"Nothing really. You're just so pretty in pink." I push the muscular globes apart, revealing the deep valley, and the tiny puckered opening. As many times as I've fucked him, it never ceases to amaze me how something that small can accommodate my rampant prick. But he does, and does it magnificently, and enjoys it.

We've both been tested, and we're clean, and exclusive, so we don't use condoms much anymore. I'm grateful for that, because I positively WORSHIP the way he feels. I fit my cock head against the tight ring of muscle, and pause. "Fox, what's your safe word?"

His fingers are scratching at the sheets in anticipation, his voice is breathy. "Trust."

"Use it if you need to." He nods, and I begin to push.

God, he's so tight, so tight.

I move slowly, teeth gritted. This is as much for myself as to prevent hurting him. He's so tight that it's almost painful for me, even with the lavish application of lubricant.

I hurt him anyway. It's impossible not to, without having loosened him first. The satiny walls of his ass are slowly pushed apart by the rough intrusion of my ejection. He makes a soft whine as I sink in, but he doesn't say the word. And when I pass over the almost imperceptible swell of his prostate, the whine morphs into a purr, and I have to smile.

Once I'm seated as deep as I intend to go, I pause to let him adjust. He lies quietly, and I can feel his flesh warming and softening around me. Finally I feel that he's ready, and begin to draw back. He immediately tries to thrust back at me, to recapture the inches that he's lost. I laugh now, and press down on his hips, holding him in place. He mutters a protest, and I scold, "Greedy bastard."

"You're one to talk." For that I pause, glans only trapped inside his body, till he starts to squirm. "Please, Alex."

I relent, and slide in again with a firm, smooth stroke. I hold him down and fuck him, slowly and gently. He wants to buck back, speed things up, but I don't let him. I'm going to be tender with him, whether he wants it right now or not.

He finally realizes that this isn't going to be one of the fast and furious nights, and accepts it sweetly. His attempts to shove back become small, slow undulations, and I ease my grip, letting him move. He finds my rhythm easily. Oh, we fit together so well. It makes me want to cry when I think of the time that was wasted, truly it does.

Tonight is a bit of a farewell screw. I have to leave tomorrow. Oh, not forever. Not even for long. But it will still be time apart, and neither one of us enjoys that. This is as much to reassure him of my return as anything else.

I slide my hands under him, pushing his busy fingers away so I can caress his lovely, strong cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts. My hands slide easily on the lube; both the commercial one I applied, and the natural one that leaks from the tip of his cock. He whimpers his thanks wordlessly.

I'm nearing the end now, and I begin to speed up. I had told him this would be shallow, but I can't resist. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him up on his knees and settling between his wide spread legs. Now I can plumb deeper, and I do, burying my full length in the narrow, heated channel that's already given me so much pleasure.

His head goes back, that always slightly messy brown hair tossing. He moans deeply. "God, yeah, Alex. Fuck me!"

Does he know how long I waited to hear those words from him? How often I dreamed them? That's why they're almost as precious to me now as the words, "I love you." It's been almost equally hard for Mulder to say them both, and I know he means them.

The last minutes of our coupling are as intense as any we've ever shared. I drive myself into him relentlessly, he takes all of me, without reservation. I wordlessly try to tell him with every thrust into his bowels, with every squeeze and stroke to his throbbing prick, that I will be back, I will never leave him, my love will not change, even if the distance between us is great.

I grunt with the last lunge that draws a wail from him, feeling his seed spill over my fast moving hands even as I erupt inside him. "Together or apart, near or far ..."

We collapse in the sticky, sweaty tangle that always results when we share ourselves. I feel the last shudders of his orgasm, feel the milking ripple of his internal muscles, stripping the last drop of cum from my softening prick. Finally I pull out of him, and drop down beside him.

He turns on his side, burrowing his face against my sweat slick chest, tongue softly seeking my still erect and aching nipples. I gain my breath and he licks and sucks. It's more of a sign of affection than an attempt to further arouse me now, and I cuddle him close.

I tip his chin up so that his hazel eyes meet mine, and whisper the final line of the poem. "Know that I love the essence that is you."

His smile is slow, sweet, and tender, and I know that he understands...

* * *

Title: Proud, Broken Heart  
Name: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: NA  
Status: Done  
Series: 'Poetic' series.  
Criticism: Yes  
Archive: Yes, let me know where  
Feedback : Yes.   
Disclaimer: They belong to Chris Carter  
Summary: Krycek musing on how Fox has made him more human.  
Notes:  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings:

* * *

Proud, Broken Heart  
by Scribe

\------------------------------------------------  
Proud of my Broken Heart  
by Emily Dickinson

Proud of my broken heart,  
since thou didst break it.  
Proud of the pain, I did not feel 'till thee.  
Proud of my night, since thou, with moons, dos't shake it.  
Not to partake thy passion, -my humility  
\------------------------------------------------

He breaks my heart. No one else in my life has ever touched that proud organ: neather parent, 'friend', or lover. Only him.

And it IS prideful. I have always been proud that I had no attachments, that I needed no one. I was solitary, and complete. Or so I thought. That concept changed when I met him, when I got to know him. When I came to want him, desire him, and then...

Love him?

Yes, love. I'll admit it. Isn't it funny? Sociopaths aren't supposed to be able to love, but this can't be anything else. It astonishes me in its depth and fervor. I had thought that nothing could inspire such feelings except my own self-nterests.

We're not supposed to feel hurt, either, except in a purely physical or totally abstract way. But I'm not like the others of my cold brotherhood, not any more. I have felt the deep, searing torture of knowing that he hated me, that he would kill me if he only had the chance. I've felt the gentler, but still bitter ache of having him turn away from me, push me aside. His tone of voice can lash me, a single glance from those hazel eyes will score my soul. I keep coming back for more. Who'd have ever believed it? Me, an emotional maschochist.

I've been called a creature of the night, and that by those who had cause to appreciate my dark nature and talents. I own that nature now because, for some reason I can't fathom, this bright creature I love seems drawn to it. He moves through my life, giving the only light and beauty I am to be able to see these days. Since it seems I cannot walk in the sun, he is my moon.

But he isn't wholly mine yet. The struggle continues, and I'm drawing him closer, day by day. Every time we meet, I chip away a little more of the mortar of doubt and repression that holds together the walls of his defenses. They will crumble soon.

Till then, I can have only what passion I can force from him. He doesn't share it willingly, and that hurts, perhaps, the most of all. But it WILL happen.

Perhaps I should be humbled in the face of his continuing rejection, but somehow, I can't be. After all, Fox Mulder cares enough to break my heart.

* * *

Title: Song of the Seducer  
Author: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Krycek/Mulder  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: Poetic Series. This takes place some time after 'Summer Redundant', and before 'By the Wall'.  
Archive: Down in the Basement, Slashing Mulder, CKoS, WWOMB, anyone else, just let me know, and give me a credit and an email address post for feedback  
Criticism: Yes.  
Feedback: Yes.   
Disclaimer: They belong to Chris Carter. I just obsess about them.  
Summary: Alex and Fox on a date? Sort of, but not really.  
Author's Notes: I have never given a public reading of my work (outside of a few class assignments), and am not well acquainted with Alex Krycek (dammit). Paula Poundstone is a very funny comedienne who performs sitting on a stool. Very relaxed.  
Warning: Rating: NC-17

* * *

Song of the Seducer  
By Scribe

Seducer

No one understands you, now,  
do they, babe?  
No one sees the you that's real,  
way down deep inside.  
You could have the love you need  
so easily  
if you'd just give up your foolish pride  
and let me in.

Because I know you...  
I know your pain.  
I know your hopes and your dreams.  
I know the deep and the dark  
of your soul.  
I know you're not what your seem  
and I want you...

People gonna tell you  
what you want is wrong,  
try to make and mold you  
into what they think they need.  
Cut you with their scorn  
if you dare to break away.  
Beat you with their guilt  
till your soul is  
bruised and bleeding, but...

I know your pain.  
I know your needs and desires,  
they're like mine.  
Walk with me now  
through the fire  
to a place  
where love can be free.

Let go the world and  
give in to me...  
You know you want to  
give in to me.  
You're gonna have to  
give in to me...

AD Skinner regarded Mulder with the sour irritation that seemed to characterize most of his encounters with this particular field agent lately. "Close the case, Mulder."

"Skinner, I can't. Look, give me one more week on it, all right? All I have to do is get One Person to talk, just one. That'll crack it wide open." The tall FBI agent leaned forward in his chair, his face earnest. "I'm telling you that these mutilation killings were NOT the work of a simple serial killer."

Scully frowned. "Mulder, I'd hardly call Beswick 'simple'. The man had an elaborate psychotic delusion, bordering on the baroque."

"I know that, Scully. But it wasn't all garden variety psychosis."

Skinner passed a hand over his face. "You're not still promoting that shape shifting theory, are you?"

"All the signs are there!" Mulder insisted. "The timing of the attacks, the eyewitness reports... They haven't had a mountain lion sighting in that area of the country for over 120 years."

"So they were driven into the deep wilds, and one became more active when the construction crew started on the chemical plant."

"But don't you think it's significant that no LOCALS were harmed? People who've been in that area all their lives? Only construction and company employees were attacked or killed."

"I'd say that indicates a lot of city folks getting out in the woods where they don't know what the hell they're doing, disturbing the natural order of things, and paying the consequences," Skinner growled.

"Or disturbing the UNNATURAL order of things." Mulder argued. "There are Indian legends in that area of a guardian spirit that can take the form of any animal. The most favored one is believed to be a mountain lion, and the spirit lives to protect the land and the people. That's just what happened, don't you see?"

Scully sighed. "Mulder, a half dozen people are dead,INCLUDING the mayor of that little mountain town you find so picturesque. You forgot him when you said no natives were hurt."

"No, Scully, you don't understand. That comes under the protection part. It was the mayor who ramrodded the agreement to allow the chemical plant to build through the city council. It wouldn't have happened without him. I'm sure he got a kickback."

Skinner's voice was sharp now. "You'd better be damn careful, making accusations like that, Mulder! There's no evidence to indicate that theory beyond the fact that he was friendly with a few of the company bigwigs. Physical evidence was found linking Beswick to the murders, he attacked you, Scully shot him, case closed."

"But something was happening when he attacked me, Walter, I swear it! His eyes weren't right, his voice..."

"ENOUGH!"

Mulder flinched, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Skinner was normally surly, but when he raised his voice like that, it was time to listen. The case would be officially closed, he wouldn't be allowed to devote any more working hours to it, and anything done on his own time would be a hazard to his career.

As they left the office, Scully said, "You keep pushing him, Mulder. You knew how this was going to end when you went in there. Why do you do it?"

He stared at her. She was his partner, probably the person he was closest to in the world, who was > supposed to understand him best, and she STILL didn't get it. "Because I have to, Scully."

Her brows drew together. "That's a child's explanation, Mulder."

He was stung. "Well, forgive me." His voice was brittle. "It's the only one I have."

As they entered their office, he grabbed his trench coat and shrugged into it. "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving early. I've put in enough damn overtime to justify it."

"Hell, Mulder, don't go off and pout somewhere."

"I'm not going to pout."

"All right, sulk, then."

"And I'm not going to sulk, either. I'm going to brood. There's a difference." He walked out without saying good-bye.

Mulder fumed, stabbing at the buttons in the elevator and almost bouncing off the walls in frustration while he waited for it to rise to ground level. He swept out of the J. Edgar Hoover building in high dudgeon, but once out of the actual building, he hesitated.

There wasn't anywhere he wanted to GO. His apartment was so empty, the Lone Gunmen were off at some sort of conspiracy convention, and the bars... even with their crowds of strangers, they somehow seemed more empty than his apartment. But he couldn't go back in, and he couldn't stay still, so he just stalked back and forth across the front of the building at the top of the steps, trying to decide what to do.

He didn't know how long he did that, how many passes he made. Finally he heard a voice call, "Do you intend to wear a groove in the stone, Mulder?" He looked around. There was only one person in sight. Why hadn't he noticed him before?

There was a bench at the bus stop in front of the building, and it held a single occupant. He was sitting with his back to Mulder, seemingly completely at ease. His arms were stretched out along the back on either side, hands dangling loosely. He was wearing a leather jacket, and a baseball cap. He didn't turn to look at Mulder, but somehow the FBI agent felt that he was aware of him, very aware.

After a moment's hesitation, Mulder started down the steps cautiously. "Do I know you?"

"Not as well as you might think you do, but that can be changed." As he came up around the bench, the man tipped his head up, and grinned at Mulder.

"Shit! Krycek!"

"Miss me?"

Mulder scowled. "The last time I took a shot, yeah."

"I love you, too."

"Stop it. What are you doing here? What kind of shit are you up to?"

"Nothing really. I have some free time, and I just thought I'd like to spend it with my fella."

"I said stop it!"

"You're so cute when you're fooling yourself."

Mulder turned and angrily stalked away. "I'm not going to stay here and listen to your bullshit."

"Okay, we'll walk." Krycek hopped up and hurried after him. Catching up, he matched his pace to Mulder's. "Where are we going?"

Mulder stopped, and Krycek halted with him. "I can't believe you. After what you did to me, you show up here like nothing happened?"

Krycek smiled, but his green eyes were almost glowing. "What DID happen, Mulder?"

Fox stared at him. "Don't play with me."

Alex cocked his head. "But it's just so much FUN, Mulder. You react so beautifully."

"You know what you did."

"Refresh my memory."

Mulder looked away. "Texas. In... in the van."

"Ah, yes. I fucked you."

Mulder's head snapped back around, hazel eyes blazing with fury. "You RAPED me!"

"Really? We seem to have two different interpretations of the event. So, tell me... If it was rape, did you report it?"

Mulder was silent. No, he hadn't reported it, hadn't told anyone. Not even Scully. "I didn't think so," Krycek said smugly. "I've been trolling the official records, and there aren't any fresh arrest warrants out for me."

Mulder scowled and resumed walking. "Wouldn't have done any good. By the time I came to, the physical evidence was screwed."

Alex followed, nodding. "Yeah, that's as good an excuse as any. How's your ass, by the way? Besides fine, I mean. Didn't hurt for too long, did it?"

"I'm not discussing this with you."

"It'll be easier the next time." Fox jerked away from him with a horrified stare. "Gah, Mulder, you've got more fits and starts tonight than I did the first time I tried to drive a standard shift."

"What the fuck do you MEAN, "next time"? That was a fucking ABERRATION!"

"Mulder, aberration just means a departure from the normal or typical. Most people think it's a GOOD thing when they get shaken out of their rut."

"It also means a deviation from the proper or expected course."

Alex shrugged, smiling easily. "I cop to that: I'm very improper, and I shoot for unexpected. Have you eaten yet?"

Fox blinked at the abrupt shift in the tone of the conversation. "Like you care."

"Sure, I care. Gotta keep your strength up, babe. Can't have you getting all involved with aliens and conspiracies, forgetting to eat, and falling away on me." He reached over and patted Mulder's flat belly lightly. "You'd lose tone in that fabulous ass of yours."

Mulder swung at him, but Alex was expecting it. He had a good idea of just how far he could go before Mulder snapped, and he'd been pushing the envelope. Alex caught the thrown fist, grabbing his wrist. He jerked, spinning, and Mulder found himself with his arm wrenched up behind his back, and Krycek's other arm around his throat, tight. "Simmer down, Sweetcheeks. There's no need to be all hostile here. I just want to take you to dinner."

Mulder struggled, but the forearm across his windpipe tightened till he was starting to see spots in front of his eyes. When he quit fighting, it loosened. He panted, "Let me get this straight. You're asking me on a fucking DATE?"

"Yeah. Nothing big. We've never really dated, ya know, not even in my brief stint as your official partner. You hang out with Scully and those computer geeks all the time, and even have dinner with Skinhead occasionally. I want that."

"I spend time with people I LIKE, Krycek."

"Why not spend some time with someone who understands you, Mulder?"

Fox became even quieter. "You don't know me."

Krycek's lips were so close to his ear that he could feel the warm brush of silken skin. "Then come with me and let me learn."

More silence. "Where?"

Krycek let go, but was careful to wipe the triumphant grin off his face before Mulder could turn around and see it. "Not far. There's a little coffee bar I think you'll like. It has good sandwiches."

"Who pays?"

"I asked, didn't I? What kind of a guy do you think I am, Mulder?" He got a stare. "Okay, don't answer that. Anyway, I don't make my dates go Dutch treat. I pay."

Mulder made a show of considering, and Alex waited confidently. He wasn't wrong. "Okay."

"Great. It's this direction."

They started walking again, not touching, but close. After a half a block, Mulder said warningly. "Just don't try any shit. I still have my gun."

"Mhm. Any particular reason why you didn't go for it back there?" No answer. Alex rubbed his chin to camouflage his smirk.

The place where Krycek took him wasn't bad, but it wasn't much, either. Small, dark, but surprisingly clean for such a seedy area. There were a fair number of people in it for the middle of the week. Either the food was really good, it had remarkably loyal clientele, or there was something going on.

They were greeted at the door by a thin, intense looking young girl wearing all black, pale lipstick, and as much mascara and eye shadow as any 1920's movie vamp. When she smiled, the femme fatale image was spoiled by a stunning set of braces. "Cindy, I see you finally sprung for the grillwork."

"Yah, Lexi. You were right, the dentist decided to let me do it on payments. Thanks for talking to him."

"No problem. Got a table for me and my friend?"

"Always. C'mon."

As they wove their way through the small tables, Fox hissed. "Krycek, exactly what kind of talk did you have with her dentist?"

"A non-fatal one." As they sat, Krycek said, "We won't need menus. Just bring us two of the French dips and a couple of beers." She nodded, leaving, and Krycek noticed Mulder's stare. "What?"

"I usually order for myself..."

"You have a problem with the French dip? I could tell her to make it a club instead, but you'd really be missing something. The kitchen uses best grade sirloin. I made an arrangement with their supplier."

"Another non-fatal talk?"

"Oh, I didn't say that." Mulder stiffened. "Christ, Mulder, relax. I'm joking. I traded favors." *It wasn't fatal for the SUPPLIER, anyway,* Krycek thought.

Cindy brought the beers, and Krycek said, "Is she in yet?"

The girl didn't ask who he meant. "Not yet. Soon."

"But there IS a gig scheduled, right?"

"Oh, yeah. You think we'd have this kind of a crowd on a Wednesday if there WASN'T gonna be a gig? You want fries with those dips?"

Krycek, the considerate date, looked at Mulder. "My friend likes to order for himself. I'd recommend the onion rings."

"Yeah, fries would be good." Fox mumbled.

"You still using those big, sweet Texas 1015s for the rings?" Alex inquired.

"Yup. As long as the season lasts."

"I'll have the rings, then." As she bustled away, he said. "You're going to be jealous of the rings."

"I wish you'd quit acting so... casual."

"Why? Mulder, everything doesn't have to be life-or-death angst, you know. You need a little downtime in your life, or you're going to flame out. Just drink your beer and enjoy the evening. You will, if you let yourself."

Mulder drank some of the beer, which was better than he had expected. They must have a good brand on tap. Belatedly he considered the fact that there might be something in it other than hops, and Krycek said, "It's just beer, Mulder."

"What makes you think I was worried about anything else?"

"I know you. Despite what you claim, I know you, Mulder."

The sandwiches came. They were as good as Krycek had promised: thick with wafer thin slices of tender, rare beef, with au jus for dipping. Eating a French dip is a messy proposition, and Mulder's fingers were soon smeared liberally with juice and grease. The tiny paper napkin was totally inadequate, and he was licking his fingers before he thought about it.

He glanced up to find Krycek watching him, eyes riveted, and froze. Krycek wiggled his own smeared fingers, then slipped one into his mouth and sucked it, watching Mulder all the while. Fox felt a stir of heat, seeing the lean cheeks hollowing slightly, as he slowly slid the finger in and out of his mouth before pulling it free with a voluptuous sigh.

When the waitress came to remove the plates, he said, "Cindy, give us a few more napkins, huh? My friend is a rather fastidious person."

"Your friend is a babe," she twinkled, pulling a pad of napkins from an apron pocket. She handed them to Fox, saying, "He must really like you. He doesn't bring anyone else here."

Fox wiped his hands. "Huh. So I'm privileged."

Alex reached over and snagged a napkin, beginning to clean himself. "I haven't been with anyone else since I partnered with you, Mulder. Well, not unless it was strictly business."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You might ask yourself why you bothered to wonder about it at all."

While Fox was trying to think of a suitable reply, a plump woman with a mop of dark, curly hair bustled over to the table. "Lexi! My biggest fan!"

"Hey, babe!" He stood up and they hugged. Fox noticed that he gave her butt a quick squeeze.

She pulled away, slapping at him in amusement. "Stop that. You'll give an old broad a heart attack. Besides, you don't really mean it, you rat." She turned bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile on Mulder. "So, this is Fox?"

Fox stood, a little stiffly, and shook hands. "Special Agent Mulder."

She cast a look at Krycek. "You weren't exaggerating, were you, dear? Wound tighter than a three day clock, but cute as hell." She turned her attention back to Mulder. "Don't worry, honey. Lexi will work those kinks out of you. Or..." She slid a mischievious glance at Krycek. "...he might work a few more INTO you."

Krycek laughed. "Evil woman. Can you do what we talked about before?"

"Of course. When have I ever turned down an opportunity to show off? Besides, you know that it's one of my favorite pieces. I think it will be very appropriate. But YOU should recite it."

"No, not tonight. I'm just here to enjoy."

"Suit yourself, hon. You always do." She eyed Mulder again, then looked at Krycek. "If you want to join in at any point, you know I encourage that."

"I know. I might."

As she went up on the small dais that was nearby, Mulder said, "What the hell is this? Karaoke?"

"Please. Nothing so plebeian. No, I just remembered one of your pet obsessions."

"Good evening, friends and strangers." The murmur of voices in the room lowered as she spoke. "As most of you know, we usually don't do a recitation or reading on Wednesdays, but I had a special request from someone of whom I'm very fond. Somehow the grapevine got hold of it. I'm going to do one of his pieces, then I'm going to open the mike to anyone who has something prepared, or just wants to get something off their chest."

She pulled a tall stool up to the mike and perched on it, adjusting the level as she said, "Quick Paula Poundstone impression." That got a few titters. The lights dimmed, except for a small spot just over her head. Mulder could see an occasional silver glint among the curls that hadn't been evident before. She was older than she looked.

Scribe closed her eyes for a moment, and you could see her centering herself, moving into whatever mood she felt was right. Mulder had finally realized that he was about to hear a poetry reading, or recitation, in this case, because she had no notes.

When she opened her eyes again, her gaze had gone smoky. Her voice, when she spoke, was still warm, but no longer cheerful. There was a husky sensuality to it, and it made Mulder look at her more closely. "This one's called 'Song of the Seducer'. One of these days I'm going to talk the boy into performing his own material."

Fox stared at Alex. What now?

The room got completely quiet. Even the staff stopped what they were doing to watch and listen. After a moment's pause, she started.

"No one understands you, now, do they babe? No one sees the you that's real, way down deep inside. You could have the love you need so easily, if you'd just give up your foolish pride and let me in. Because I know you..."

Krycek wasn't watching the woman. His eyes were locked on Mulder, searching. She continued. "I know your pain. I know your hopes and your dreams. I know the deep and the dark of your soul. I know you're not what your seem and I want you..."

Mulder wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Krycek had him pinned as effectively as if he was physically holding his head in a vice grip, forcing him to lock gazes. Krycek had written this?

"People gonna tell you what you want is wrong, try to make and mold you into what they think they need." God, that was so true. His father, the Bureau, the world in general... Even his friends. They all seemed to have some preconceived notion of what he should be, and he was continually falling short of that.

"Cut you with their scorn if you dare to break away. Beat you with their guilt till your soul is bruised and bleeding, but... I Know your pain." That was exactly how he felt sometimes: battered. Never enough trust, never enough faith, never quite good enough. Always something he should have done instead or in addition. Never enough to satisfy anyone by just being himself.

Alex Krycek whispered the words with the poet. "I know your pain. I know your needs and desires. They're like mine. Walk with me now through the fire to a place where love can be free."

Mulder could feel himself starting to tremble. *No, don't listen. Can't listen. Remember the title of the damn poem. The seducer, right? He'll say anything, do anything to get what he wants. He'll offer whatever it takes. Understanding and acceptance, this time. But there's a price. There's always a price. There has to be.*

"Let go the world and give in to me. You know you want to give in to me." The woman's voice fell away quietly, and Krycek's voice was a bare brush of sound. "You're gonna have to give in to me."

There was a moment's silence, then a burst of applause. The woman bowed her head, smiling at Krycek,and gave up her seat to a boy dressed in a T-shirt that advertised a deathmetal band, who began to recite a poem about, shockingly enough, how the world in general just didn't understand him.

Mulder finally managed to drop his eyes, tearing > himself away from that knowing, intense gaze. He smiled. "I've got one called Song of the Dom I want you to hear sometime, but not tonight. It's a little early for that one, I think."

"I've got to get home." He pushed his chair back, standing up.

"Sure." Krycek pulled some bills from his pocket, and > handed them to a passing Cindy. "Keep the change, Cin. Put it toward your first payment." She giggled. Mulder was making his way toward the door. Krycek > hopped up and followed him. "Hey! Wait for baby."

Out on the street, Mulder started back for the J. Edgar Hoover Building with Krycek once again by his side. "Kind of early for you to be turning in Mulder, what with your insomnia..."

"I didn't say I was going to sleep, I just said I need to get home."

"Silly me, reading more into things than is there. Can I have a ride?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. I'm going to get in a car with you."

"C'mon, Mulder. I bought dinner. I just need a ride home."

Mulder considered. He doubted the triple agent would actually direct him to where he was holed up, but if he could get some general idea of where Krycek was staying, it might prove useful. "All right. Where?"

"You know better than that. I'll give you directions."

In the car, he indicated where to turn when it was appropriate. Mulder started to feel apprehensive as they moved into a more deserted part of the city. But then, it would be typical of Krycek to choose someplace totally obscure. At last he said, "Pull over here."

Fox stopped in front of an ancient, crumbling brick building that had rubble strewn lots on either side. He bent to peer past Krycek at the lightless building. "It looks abandoned."

Krycek reached past him and turned the key, shutting off the car's engine. "It is." He scooted toward Mulder, hand drifting up to settle against his cheek.

Fox jerked his head back. "I should have known."

"What? I just want a little cuddling, Mulder, that's all. A little necking, it doesn't have to be anything extreme." He had his arms around Mulder, and pulled him closer.

"I've told you before, I'm not gay."

"Neither am I. The term is 'bi' Mulder, you know that, with all your psychological studies. And I'm not attracted to you because you're a man. I'm attracted to you because you're Fox Mulder. Isn't that how it's supposed to be?"

He leaned forward, and Mulder turned his face away. Alex settled for brushing his lips against the hinge of Mulder's jaw. He licked the little hollow. When Mulder shivered, he made his way slowly down the FBI agent's neck, trailing his tongue, and started to suck a small patch of skin just above his collar.

"I don't want this." Mulder's voice was thick.

"Then fight me," Krycek whispered. "Go on, Mulder, slap the shit out of me. Make me bleed. You've done it before."

Fox could remember that vividly: the feel of his fist driving into Krycek's gut, his face. The warm wetness of blood. The way Krycek had licked the blood from his split lip, and smiled up at him through the > rapidly darkening bruises that marked his handsome face... Something in his gut clenched as he compared his violence to the gentleness he was experiencing now.

*No, it's just some sort of mind fuck. He's lulling me, trying to get me to drop my guard. Then he'll rip me open again.* Mulder thought this, but when Krycek took hold of his chin, he let his face be turned.

Krycek's mouth came down on his this time, firm and hungry. His lips were pushed apart, and a questing tongue stroked over his teeth.

He felt Krycek's hand in his lap, kneading the growing swell of his awakening prick. *I've got to stop this now. Right now.* Krycek was pulling down his zipper, reaching into the gap. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It means as much or as little as you want it to mean, Mulder." Krycek pulled Mulder's hard-on out into the open, and began to stroke him gently, slowly. "You need this right now, I can tell. Let me give it to you. I can take good care of you, if you just let me."

"I don't need you." His head had fallen back on the headrest. *God, it's been a long time since anyone touched me like this. It feels so good.*

"We all need someone. Even me, and I used to think I was the most self-sufficient bastard on the face of the earth, but here I am: jerking off a man who's told me over and over that he hates me. What do you suppose that means, Mulder? You're the profiler."

"It means you're nuts."

A chuckle. "Thank you for your professional opinion."

Mulder groaned as Krycek found the dribble of precome that had oozed from his slit and used it to slick his hand, making it slide more easily on Mulder's engorged flesh. "You need me, Mulder. You're just hanging on to everything else so damn hard that you can't see it, and I can't understand why. What has the rest of the world done for you except sneer at you and kick you in the teeth?"

His hand was moving faster. Mulder found himself pushing up into Krycek's grip, lifting his ass off the car seat with little grunts. "That's right, Mulder, that's right. Just forget about all the rest for right now. Just you and me, and how good this feels, how right this feels."

Krycek kissed him again. This time Mulder's teeth parted, and Krycek's tongue swept deep, licking and stroking over Mulder's. As he pumped more strongly, squeezing, Mulder began to suck on his tongue. He soon had to stop, though, putting his head back and gasping. He was too close to orgasm, bucking up wildly into Krycek's fist.

He heard Krycek whispering again. "Yes, Mulder. Give it to me, come on. I'm the one. I know your pain. I know your needs and desires--they're like mine." His hand moved furiously. "Let go the world and give in to me. You know you want to give in to me. You're gonna have to give in to me."

Fox cried out desperately, grabbing Krycek by the back of the neck, holding him as the first spasm of his climax struck. He was looking into Krycek's eyes when he came, his sperm bathing the rapidly moving hand.

Krycek's movements slowed, but did not stop immediately. He continued to stroke and squeeze Mulder's softening prick for a few moments, almost as if he were petting the trembling man, trying to soothe him. Mulder hadn't removed his hand from the back of Krycek's neck, but his grip was loose now.

Krycek pulled a bandana out of his jacket and used it to wipe Mulder off, then cleaned his hand. He grinned at Fox, holding the bandana to his nose for a deep snif before he tucked it back in his pocket. "I think I'll keep this."

Feeling heavy and dreamy, Mulder murmured, "DNA sample?"

"Souvenir." Krycek kissed him again lightly, then got out of the car. He bent back down to look through the > open passenger window. "Sorry I can't see you to your door properly, Mulder, but it just wouldn't be wise. Besides, I think you can use a little time alone to think about things. Just remember, I'm the one who wants you just exactly like you are."

He moved away quickly, melting into the shadows with the ease of long practice. Mulder tucked himself back into his pants, zipping up, then started the car. But for a moment he just sat there, staring after Krycek.

*It's a mind fuck, Mulder. That's all it is. The man is a genius at finding the right buttons to push.*

As he started back to his apartment, the words of the poem echoed in his mind. The memory of the woman's voice faded to be replaced by Krycek's husky tones. "I know the deep and the dark of your soul. I know your're not what you seem, and I want you..."

* * *

Title: By the Wall  
Author: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: Poetic series  
Archive: CKoS, Slashing Mulder, Down in the Basement. Others, just ask. I'll probably say yes.  
Criticism: Yes.  
Feedback: Yes.   
Disclaimer: Alex, Fox, and the X Files belong to Chris Carter and The Corporate Powers. *shudder*  
Summary: Fox has been blown off again, and Alex is there to smooth his fur.  
Author's Notes: The relationship is at an odd point. Mulder still doesn't fully trust Krycek, but accepts his support and comfort. Warning: Not really. Just a little Mulder Angst.  
Rating: R

* * *

By The Wall

The Last Word  
by: Matthew Arnold

Creep into thy narrow bed,  
Creep, and let no more be said!  
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.  
Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!  
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.  
Let them have it how they will!  
Thou art tired: best be still.

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee?  
Better men fared thus before thee;  
Fired their ringing shot and passed,  
Hotly charged - and sank at last.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb!  
Let the victors, when they come,  
When the forts of folly fall,  
Find thy body by the wall!

Alex

I was waiting for him at his apartment when he returned, bruised and bloody. Oh, not PHYSICALLY, though that's happened often enough in his life. I've even been the author of his pain, from time to time. No, this time the beating had been spiritual. It had been done with words, disbelief, and contempt rather than fists and boots.

I don't know why he keeps trying. I know I would have given up long ago. If the ignorant bastards want to put their heads in the sand and stand there with their butts in the air, WAITING for a cosmic reaming, it's none of MY business. He doesn't see it that way. Don Quixote reincarnate, that's my Mulder. Except his windmills are giants, instead of the other way around.

I knew he was going to try once again to convince some of the idiots in power of what was actually going on in our sweet little 'democracy'. That's why I was waiting here when he returned. I knew he would need me, even if he DIDN'T know it.

Now, Mulder is a bit of an expert when it comes to being depressed. My God, the man has made it an art form. But when he came through the door, I could see that he was really outdoing himself this time. All the classic symptoms were there: hair in the eyes, those same hazel eyes dim,

He wasn't surprised to see me. He's beginning to get used to finding me in his most private sanctum. He acknowledged me with a tired nod. "Krycek."

I tilted my head in return greeting. "Fox."

He winced. "Don't call me that."

"Oh, we ARE touchy tonight."

"They wouldn't listen."

"No? Really?"

"Smart ass."

The jacket lands carelessly on the sofa, followed by the tie. He's gotten more casual when he's around me now. I guess having someone suck your dick will do that for you. He's still trying to deny that there's any real RELATIONSHIP between us. That's all right. I know.

I offer him the beer I got out of the refrigerator when I saw his car pull up. That gives him pause. He knows he didn't have any when he left, so NOW I'm bringing groceries. He accepts it, though. That's the spirit. Never turn down a free beer. And he even drinks it without sniffing it suspiciously to see if I drugged it. I didn't. This time.

"Why do you keep doing it, Mulder?" I have to ask the question. I'm pretty sure of the answer: it's just not in his nature to give up. He scowls at the beer. Not at me, I notice. Improvement, always improvement.

"They have to listen SOMETIME."

"No, they don't. You know that." I poke his chest. "Here."

He doesn't punch me, doesn't swat at my hand, doesn't even pull away. "I have to keep trying." He rolls the cool glass of the bottle across his forehead, sighing. "Maybe I can get through, if I try just a little harder."

I take away the bottle, and he watches as I finish the last swallow, then set it aside. I push the hair up off his cool, damp brow and say, "Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said! Vain thy onset! all stands fast. Thou thyself must break at last." He frowns, and again I touch him, smoothing the wrinkles from his forehead with my fingertips. "Matthew Arnold." I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. "Let the long contention cease."

He's shaking his head, but he follows. "Geese are swans, and swans are geese," he mutters, bitter irony in his tone.

By the bed, I start to strip him, and he gives himself up to my ministrations, only moving enough to allow me to remove each garment. When he's naked, I run my hands over his chest in a brief, but tender caress, then start on my own clothes. He watches as I take off my shirt, and begin to unfasten my pants. "But Alex, if I can convince just ONE of them..."

I lay a finger against his lips, stilling them, shaking my head. We won't think about this now. Now is for us. "Let them have it how they will. Thou art tired: best be still." And, hallelujah, he smiles faintly, that beautiful mouth curving under my touch.

When I am naked, he moves into my arms. For a long moment I just hold him, drinking in his warmth and life. For so long I felt cold and dead, but now I have this. I pull him down onto the bed, and we begin to make love.

I've found that Mulder can be a generous lover, when he's allowed to be. But tonight I don't really let him do anything. I'm the one who moves, strokes, caresses, kisses, licks, sucks. He's been hurt today, and I want to take his mind away from the sting, at least for a little while.

A little while. That's all it can be, I know. Just this little space while he arches beneath me, fully accepting, letting me into his very core, holding me together by his very existence. Just these few minutes while we are joined in heart as well as in flesh.

The time is coming when it will last longer. It will last past the long, slow cooling of sweat on sated bodies, past the sweet, contented sleep that comes just after. That is what I am working toward: the day when the look of peace stays in his eyes when the morning comes.

When we are done, I hold him. He curls beside me, face against my chest, his warm breath fanning one slightly bruised nipple (my, he was almost desperate tonight). It will be a little time before I sleep. These times are when I do the best thinking about this thing between Mulder and myself.

I stroke his soft hair, gently so as not to awaken him, and I whisper, "They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee. Fired their ringing shot and passed, Hotly charged-and sank at last." I know. I participated in the destruction of such men. I know how the blind system works, shouting down those who voice truths they'd rather not hear.

None have succeeded. He knows that, in his heart, but it won't stop him. He'll keep 'fighting the good fight' till he wins, or it kills him. How sad that it is the second possibility that is most likely to happen.

"Charge once more, and then be dumb." Keep trying, Fox. I love you, you hard-headed, persistent bastard. Eventually, they will see that you are right, though it may not be until they are staring their own destruction in the face. "Let the victors, when they come, when the forts of folly fall, find thy body by the wall!"

That's how it will be, won't it, Mulder? If others do not rally to your cause, you'll go down fighting, alone. Because that's what you have to do, because you can't do any less.

I bend and touch my mouth to his passion-bruised lips one last time before letting myself drift off to sleep. I've made a decision that wasn't really a decision at all. It was more a simple acceptance of how things had to be.

When they find him by the wall, either physically, or metaphorically, he won't be alone. I'll be there beside him.

* * *

Title: Neither Toying or Talking  
Author: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: Poetic Series  
Archive: Down in the Basement, WWOMB, Slashing Mulder, CKoS, Texfiles  
Criticism: Yes.  
Feedback: Yes. My private forum at fanfiction.net is http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?fanaction=userforum&RoomID=1762  
Web pages: Scribe Scribbles at http://www.geocities.com/poet_77665 for original prose, poetry and madness, and fanfiction. The Poetic Site, for my X Files Krycek/Mulder Poetic slash series. http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver. Most of my work can also be found at http://www.fanfiction.net under the name Scribe.  
Disclaimer: The boys belong to Chris Carter, the greedy, wasteful hog.  
Summary: Mulder pouts, and Krycek shows him that actions speak louder than words.  
Author's Notes: They've started a relationship, but Mulder is still a little ambivilant. Pre 'Tired of Pretending'.  
Warning:  
Rating: NC-17

* * *

Neither Toying, or Talking  
By Scribe

To His Mistress, Objecting to Him Neither Toying, or Talking  
By Robert Herrick

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play  
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.  
You blame me, too, because I can't devise  
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;  
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,  
The most I love, when I the least express it.  
***  
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,  
That chiding streams betray small depth below.  
So when love speechless is, she doth express  
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.  
Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such,  
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.

Neither Toying, or Talking

Someone once said that you never really know anyone till you go on vacation with them. Not necessarily true. I knew Fox before we came up this mountain, and I knew exactly how he was going to react when the generator failed and the rains came down.

He's bored. Oh, it's not like he's trying to CONCEAL it. No, Fox Mulder is not discreet about his displeasure. He's been sitting there, staring at me for the last hour, and I've been carefully avoiding his eyes for that same amount of time. I have to. If I look at him, I'm liable to give up on what I'm doing, and that wouldn't be good for either of us.

After all, HE'S the one who's been urging me to get into a more, shall we say, mainstream profession. That's why I've taken on this security consulting job, and I HAVE to have these specs read by the time we get back, and he KNOWS that. I wouldn't have brought work along if I could have helped it, and he knows THAT, too, but it doesn't seem to be helping things.

The electricity is off, so he can't use his laptop, or watch videos. It's been pouring the last two days, so he can't hike. (Though I think he's fooling himself about that. Mulder is NOT nature boy, and I have a feeling that a couple of hours of struggling uphill through brush and over rocks would have had him ready to consider 'roughing it' as no Jacuzzi in the hotel suite.) I suggested that he read a book. We do, after all, have plenty of fuel for the hurricane lamps. He flipped a few pages, then went back to staring at me.

It isn't easy to ignore him. If it were, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be in his LIFE. I would have done my assignment, maybe killed him, and been on my merry way, a footloose and fancy free young assassin with the whole world open before me. Instead I'm here in a small cabin, in the deep, damp forest, with a surly, pissed-off lover who's irritated because he thinks I'm not paying enough attention to him.

*sigh*

Let us now sing a chorus of 'Can't Help Lovin' That Man o' Mine'.

But the ordeal is almost over. I'm on the last page of the report, and I already know what I'm going to tell the dim-bulbs who submitted it to me. With a little money and a lot of work they can plug the holes in their Swiss cheese security system to the extent that a learning disabled nine-year-old with a Commodore 64 will no longer be able to breach it. If they want impenetrable, it's REALLY going to cost them.

*sigh*

That wasn't me, that was Fox. Again. You'd think the man was oxygen deprived, the way he's been heaving sighs, right and left. It's getting to him that I'm not reacting. He crossed his arms a couple of minutes ago. His chin is sunk down on his chest, and his mouth is at maximum sulk. I'm tempted to just toss the report, forget the last few paragraphs, and climb on top of him. I get so hot when he pouts. Well, I get hot WHATEVER mood he's in, but that's not the point.

I finish the last few lines, set the report neatly on the table, and turn toward him, as he sits on the far end of the couch. "What?" His eyebrows go up in a questioning gesture. "What is it, Mulder? What's wrong?"

Now he looks away. "Nothing."

I rub my face. "Christ, Mulder, do NOT play that game with me. It's a woman's trick, and you know damn good and well that you might bottom for me, but you sure as hell aren't femme. Talk to me."

"Why should I?" The tone is petulant. "It isn't like you've been making an effort to talk to ME."

"And here we have the problem."

He looks back at me. "Well, it's true. You've been ignoring me all day. You haven't said more than two words together."

"I had to get that finished, you know that."

"I can understand you wanting to spend time on it, but you've been ABSORBED."

I slide closer. "Feeling neglected, babe?"

He growls. "Don't be stupid. It's just common courtesy to pay some attention to someone when you're in the same room. And..." He stops, looking away again, beginning to blush.

"And what?"

"Lately you're... you're not..." The flush deepens. "Well, except when we're in bed, you don't..."

I get the picture now, and he's right. I've been preoccupied with this new job prospect lately. I HAVEN'T been as affectionate as I've been in the past, as I WANT to be. Shit, I'll have to watch it, or I'll turn into one of those workaholic, takes-his-mate-for-granted assholes. But I must admit that I'm loving the fact that he's been missing my loving. I slip even closer. "Herrick."

He blinks at me. "What?"

I put my arms around him. He's stiff, still unready to forgive, or give in. "Robert Herrick. To His Mistress, Objecting to Him Neither Toying, nor Talking. First line?"

He frowns, thinking. It's become a game with us. No, it's more serious than that. Poetry has woven itself through this relationship, all the way back to when it began. We recited a nursery rhyme to each other the first time we met, but what started between us that day is far from childish.

After a moment he finds the words he's looking for. "You say I love not, 'cause I do not play still with your curls, and kiss the time away."

I run my hands into that thick brown mop, letting the strands sift through my fingers, and lean in to kiss him lightly at the corner of his mouth, just where his lips turn down. "You blame me, too, because I can't devise some sport, to please those babies in your eyes."

He scowls and tries to pull away. If there's one thing Mulder hates, it's being called childish. He's had too much of that from his family, his boss, his partner. He doesn't want to hear it from me, too, but there it is. He doesn't understand... I don't understand how he can have seen all that he's seen, been through all that he's been through, and still kept that inner child. I'll have to explain to him some day the difference between childish and childlike.

I refuse to let go. When he turns his face away I put my lips to his ear and whisper, "By Love's religion, I must here confess it, the most I love, when I the least express it."

He looks back at me, almost reluctantly, and speaks the next line as a question. "Deep waters noiseless are?"

I nod, continuing the poem. "...and this we know, that chiding streams betray small depth below."

This time he doesn't turn away when I go to kiss him, and I feel him start to relax in my arms. I find myself smiling against his mouth. He wants the little physical shows of affection? He wants to be petted, and made much of? I can give him that, happily, and I do. I let my hands wander all over that long, lean body: stroking, caressing, pinching gently. Soon he's clinging to me, warm and pliant, sighing as I nibble at the tender skin just below his ear.

"So when love speechless is, she doth express a depth in love," he murmurs.

I work the button and zipper on his jeans, reaching inside to find him warm and firm. "And that depth bottomless," I agree.

I bend down and kiss the rosy tip of his erection, then lick away the bead of clear fluid that oozes out to greet me. He moans my name as I slowly draw my tongue down to the base, then up again, and take him in my mouth. I concentrate on giving him the hottest head of his life, using every trick and technique I possess. I love him, and he deserves the best.

I draw it out for long minutes, holding his hips down when he wants to thrust up into my mouth, making him endure exquisite torture. Finally, when he's almost frantic, I relent. I let go, and he bucks wildly, spewing his seed down my throat, and I drink him dry. When it is done and he's limp... Well, his spine, anyway: his prick is still half hard. When it's over, I take my time licking him clean. He's almost purring when I'm done.

I sit back up and kiss him. This used to make him pause, but he's grown to enjoy it when either one of us shares the other's taste after sex. He welcomes my tongue into his mouth, sucking it softly.

Finally I lean my forehead against his. I knew this last couplet was coming, and I know what his reaction is going to be. "Now, since my love is tongueless..." He bursts out laughing, and I have to chuckle along with him, but I continue. "Mulder?" He sobers a little, but he's still smiling. "Know me as such, who speak but little, 'cause I love so much."

He nods, and snuggles down beside me, arms around me. For a long time we sit like that, in silence. And it's all right. I think he's learned an important fact: that if you love someone, you don't always NEED words...

* * *

Title: Tired of Pretending  
Author: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: Poetic series  
Archive: Slashing Mulder, Down in the Basement, CKoS. Others ask. I'll probably say yes.  
Criticism: Yes.  
Feedback: Yes.   
Disclaimer: Not mine. How many times do I have to say this? WHY DO YOU KEEP RUBBING IT IN?!  
Summary: Alex told Fox that some day he'd come to him willingly.  
Author's Notes: A slight break. Technically, this is a song lyric, but they are poetry, and this one was simply too perfect to pass up. Besides, it makes me want to cry every time I hear it (or see the video. Hey, Tritt can ACT.)  
Warning: Mmm. Not really.  
Rating:

* * *

Tired of Pretending  
by Scribe

Anymore  
By Travis Tritt

I can't hide the way I feel about you anymore  
I can't hold the hurt inside, keep the pain out of my eyes anymore  
My tears no longer waiting,  
my resistence ain't that strong  
My mind keeps recreating a life with you alone  
And I'm tired of pretending, I don't love you anymore

Let me make one last appeal to show you how I feel about you  
'Cause there's no one else I swear,  
holds a candle anywhere next to you  
My heart can't take the beating, not having you to hold  
A small voice keeps repeating deep inside my soul  
It says I can't keep pretending, I don't love you anymore

I've got to take a chance or let it pass by  
If I expect to get on with my life

My tears no longer waiting, Oh my resistence ain't that strong  
And my mind keeps recreating a love with you alone  
And I'm tired of pretending, I don't love you anymore

Fox

It is a measure of how depressed I am that when the jukebox starts playing Garth Brooks I don't get up and leave. I do not listen to country-and-western, or country, or whatever the hell they call it these days. Jazz? You bet. Blues? Absolutely. Rock, techno-industrial-disco? Hey, if I can dance to it after I've had a few (or more than a few) beers, I'm for it. But this...

I do not want to listen to any of those hat-wearing, line-dancing, big belt buckle, red neck heaven, beer swilling, wife-done-left-me, good ol' boy serenades. Country music is heavy on the heartache, and I just don't NEED that shit. I gotta wonder... Of all the suicides they find each year, how many have the radio going, and how many of THOSE are playing country?

Okay, I could see it if this was a shit-kicker bar, with the longhorn horns and mounted bass and neon Budweiser sign behind the bar. But this is urban all the way, friends. We're talking a serious, no-frills watering hole. You'd think people would have better sense than to play upbeat music, wouldn't you? If I'd seen whoever was responsible for the quarter that gave us first 'Two Pina Colladas', then 'Friends In Low Places', I probably would have said something off the smart-ass meter and gotten my lights punched out.

Actually, a little oblivion is what I'm looking for. It has suddenly occurred to me just exactly how alone I am in the world. Scully is off visiting her mother, Skinner is on a weekend camping trip with Hank, and all three of the Lone Gunmen are buried up to their beady eyes in getting together a new website on (surprisingly enough) government conspiracies. I offered to hang around and maybe help research, but I was firmly informed that there just wasn't enough computer space, so why didn't I toddle off like a good little Special Agent?

It's bad enough that I don't have anyone to hang with. What's making me knock back brews at a steady clip is the fact that I have realized that even when I'm with any of the people I just mentioned, I sometimes get the feeling that they aren't really AWARE of me. Not the real me.

I know, self pitying and self-involved as hell. Dana would tell me to get over myself. I can't help it. Do you know what it's like to realize that the people you know best are looking right at you, and not really SEEING you? To Dana, I'm an obsessive. To Walter, I'm a loose cannon. To the Gunmen, I'm a visionary, and possibly a prophet. I don't know. I guess I'm a little of all that, but they can't seem to see PAST those things. Only one person I've known has that ability, and I don't want to think about him. That's one of the reason's I'm ordering another beer.

Oh, god, more Brooks. Who the hell slipped that monster more change while I was distracted? 'Shameless'. Didn't Billy Joel do that originally? Well, I'll give him this: he sounds like he means it. But I'd better go put some money in the box. Call it a pre-emptive strike. There might be a track of 'Bubba Shot the Jukebox' on there. I'm wearing my gun, and I can't swear that nothing would happen if they played it.

I rake a quarter out of the change the bartender left next to my last mug, and go over to the brightly lit box squatting between the men's room and the pool table. I'm not really concerned about WHAT I'm going to hear, as long as whoever recorded it doesn't wear a hat while he performs.

They have representative CD covers displayed over the selections. I glance at one that shows a tough looking guy with a beard and hair down over his shoulders. His recordings are right up at the front, so I don't have to go searching among the little paper slips that show which buttons you need to punch. I slot the quarter and stab B17. I do it twice, because I don't feel like making any more decisions tonight.

When the first plaintive strains come from the speakers, I mutter, "Aw, shit!" and look more closely at the CD. 'It's All About To Change', by Travis Tritt. Looks like I've just set myself and the bar up for a double shot of something called 'Anymore'. I need to pay more attention to the media. How long have country singers been wearing hair like that? I consider unplugging the damn thing, but the bartender is watching me, so I just go back to my beer. I sit down, hunch my shoulder, and set myself to endure.

"Bartender," I flick my finger against the mug. "This seems to be defective, it's not working properly."

He sighs "Probably flat, what with you letting it sit so long," he says sarcastically, and starts to pull another.

I stop him. "No. Give me a shot of tequila instead." That raises his eyebrows, but I'm not drunk, so he pours it out. I pick up the shot, contemplating the amber liquid. If I can pound down enough of these, maybe I can get rid of that empty feeling for a little while. I'm perfectly willing to replace it with an aching head and a sour stomach. I touch the glass to my lips and, as I'm about to tip it up, I listen to a phrase from the song. Slowly I set the glass back down. It isn't going anywhere, it will still be here if I take a minute to listen to the music.

It isn't too bad. When it's done, and starts over, I listen to it. No, I mean I LISTEN to it, to what the man is saying. When it's over, I rake a couple more quarters out of the change, go to the box, and set it up another four times. I need to study this a little.

I just sit and stare at the bar while the music plays, drawing patterns in the condensation my mug has left. I draw rings around the shot of tequila, but I don't touch it. The music finally ends, and I pull a dollar out of my pocket and ask for change. Looking apprehensive, the bartender hands it to me. I plop all four quarters in, and start pushing B17. By the time I've finished, the song has already started again.

I go sit back at the bar, and start my art work again. After the song plays another two times (six more to go), the bartender comes and stands in front of me. I know he doesn't have anything to say that I want to hear, so I ignore him for a chorus. Finally he says, "Friend, I don't know what it is you have eatin' at you, but NO ONE is allowed to play the same damn song on that jukebox more than six times in a row, and you passed the mark on your last trip over there. Now, I'm going to be charitable, because I can see that you're hurtin' over somethin', but if you try to put any more money in that thing you end up on the street, and maybe not in an upright condition."

I nod to show that I understand. Oh, hell, it's a reasonable enough policy. I sit and listen till the music finally runs out, and I think. A lot. Finally I stand up, getting my coat from the stool beside me and slipping it on. "Thanks. Keep the change." I start to walk away.

"Hey!" I look back. The bartender is indicating the full shot glass of tequila. "You don't want your drink?" I shake my head. "You're not getting a refund for this."

"Did I ASK for one?"

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with it?"

I shrug. "Drink it. Pour it back in the bottle. Donate it to put an end to world sobriety, I don't care." As I turn to go, he's unscrewing the cap on the tequila bottle and tipping the shot glass toward its mouth. I make a mental note not to come back here again.

It's still early. That's good. I have to find something, and I know there will still be a few stores open downtown. I locate an all night record store and go in. I stand just inside the door, looking around uncertainly. It's pretty big. I'm sure there's some logic to its layout, but I'm not up to analytical thinking right now.

I'm approached by a slim young man in black. He has tiny handcuff earrings dangling from his earlobes, and I look away quickly. Those bring up memories I'm not quite prepared to deal with right now. He's very helpful and friendly, though. "What can I help you find?"

"I never thought I'd say this, but I need the country and western section." He winces. "I know. I think it's a temporary aberration."

"I'll pray for you." He leads me over to a section near the back, and abandons me to my own devices.

I locate MALE VOCALISTS, and find the T section. I flip past James Taylor, Pam and Mel Tillis, Aaron Tippen, Randy Travis, and finally come to Travis Tritt. I sift through his newer CDs, and finally locate one lone copy of 'It's All About to Change', and take it up to the counter.

The clerk checks me out, nodding grudgingly at my selection. "All right, if you MUST, he's the right one. He can rock his ass off when he wants to."

"I dunno. I bought it for a ballad." He was shaking his head sadly as I walked out.

I wasn't exactly drunk, but I smelled of beer, so I was taking a chance, driving around. That didn't seem to matter too much. Out in the car, I ripped the cellophane off the plastic case and took out the disc, then put it in the dashboard player. I started the car and drove away, just letting it sit there for the time being.

I drove out to the docks, and pulled into the parking lot. It had been pea-soup foggy the last time I was there, and I had parked near the entrance in fear of running off into the water. It was clear tonight, and I drove to the far side. I put the car in park and cut the lights, then sat there for a little while longer before shutting it off. He programmed the CD player to run track three continuously, then got out.

It might not be foggy, but it was still a little chilly, and I wrapped himself in my trench coat while the track cued up. As the lyrics were starting, I walked around to the front of the car, leaving the window rolled down so the music could escape, and sat on the hood of the Taurus. I stared out at the black, glittering water, and remembered. I remembered it all, from the very beginning.

I remembered the smell of donuts as I looked into his eyes the first time that misty, moisty morning before we 'officially' met. I remembered wanting to wipe that bland, friendly smile off his face as he shook hands with me the day I learned that he had been sent to replace Dana. I remembered him on the roof of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the gritty wind whipping his hair, and in my kitchen, leaning in to me with his arms braced on either side of me, so close, but not touching.

I remembered the betrayal, my father. I remembered the times I beat him bloody. I remember standing in an alley not far from her with his gun against my throat, then with his mouth on my cock. I remember a long trek through a pitiless desert, and how he saved my life, and how he exacted payment afterward, taking me like...

No. I was going to say taking me like I was his bitch, but it wasn't like that. It's never been like that with Alex. Even when he's been forcing caresses on me while I spit curses at him, there's been a nugget of respect in the way he treated me. I know that sounds crazy and contradictory, but it's the way it is.

And I remember him telling me, more than once, "Some day, Mulder. Some day you're going to admit that you feel it, too. Some day YOU'RE going to come to ME, and you'll not just acquiesce, you'll seek my touch. I'll be waiting for that day. I can be very patient when I have to."

I remember the times he helped me, when it could have been easier, even safer, for him not to. I remember the times he just showed up when I was at my lowest ebb. He didn't try to tell me everything would be all right, he didn't go on about the wrong-headedness of the rest of the world. He just listened to me rant and whine. Then he held me, and touched me, and somehow soothed me. He got to a place deep inside me that most others never suspected, much less reached.

I don't know how many times the song played. I just know that the moon had advanced more than halfway across the sky when I finally got back in the car. My buzz was long gone, and that was good. I needed to be totally sober, totally in control. Totally believable.

Alex

It's two twenty-five when the knocking starts. I know, because I look at the clock by my bed, wondering who the fuck would be here at that time of the morning. Actually, I'm just wondering who the fuck would be here AT ALL. I haven't given this address to anyone.

Well, I lie. (Not as often as I used to, granted, but it still happens). I gave it to ONE person, but it hardly seems likely that it would be him. He's been very resistant to coming to my home turf, and my fantasies tend to be a little more believable than Fox Mulder coming to my apartment in the dead of night for any reason except to beat the shit out of me.

I'm awake and out of bed by the third knock. In the league I play in, you don't wake up groggy, or you don't LIVE long past waking up. I just stand there for a moment, head cocked. But the 9mm I keep under my pillow is in my hand while I'm listening, safety off. When I'm fairly certain they aren't going to stop, OR kick the door in, I pull on a pair of sweat pants and pad through the darkened apartment to the front door.

The only illumination in the room comes from the street lamp outside the front window. It slants yellow slashes of light across the floor, outlining the bulk of my few pieces of furniture. At the door, I tuck the gun in the back of my pants, put my hand on its butt, and cautiously open the door on the chain.

It's him. He's rumpled, tired looking, and beer fumes are reaching me all the way from out there. "Mulder, what the fuck do you want at this time of the morning?" "Lemme in, Krycek."

I hesitate, studying him, trying to decide if doing this will get me another beating. If it will, that doesn't necessarily mean I won't open the door. I'm just trying to gauge the severity I'm risking. He doesn't say anything else, just waits. After a moment, I shut the door. Outside, he sighs when he hears me unhook the chain.

I open the door and let him in, shutting and locking it behind him. He walks into the middle of the room and turns back to face me. A slash of light falls across his face, striking those hazel eyes and making them look almost golden. I walk a little closer, and decide that he isn't drunk, even if he DOES smell like a brewery.

He must know what I'm thinking, because he says, "I'm sober. I didn't drink enough to get past a buzz, and that was hours ago."

I nod. "I'm going to be reaching for a gun now, Mulder. Just to get it away from my ass, not to shoot you. The metal is fucking cold." Slowly and carefully I draw the automatic, click on the safety, and lay it aside on a table. After a moment's hesitation, he draws his gun from his shoulder holster and lays it beside mine. So, we're having a truce tonight. I'm now even more interested in what Mulder has to say. "What is it?"

"Do you have a CD player?"

Well, that wasn't exactly the LAST question I'd have expected him to ask, but it's up there in the top thirty or so. I point at the small player sitting on the cabinet against the wall. He goes to it, and takes a plastic case out of his jacket. Opening it, he pulls out what looks like an ordinary CD, puts it in the player, turns the machine on, and starts to program it.

"What is it, Mulder? Some new bit of evidence slipped you by an informant? Something the Lone Gunmen stumbled over? Am I expected to confirm, deny, or just comment?"

"Just listen, okay?"

It starts. It's just music, ordinary music. No codes I can pick out, no voices whispering of conspiracies or mayhem. No deep dark secrets revealed. That's what I think, at first. But the song repeats after the first play, and I start to listen more closely. All I can think is that I've been hearing hoofbeats and looking for zebras instead of horses. Maybe it's just a song he wants me to hear.

He's still standing by the cabinet, his back to me, as I listen to the first verse. It's a strong, clear male voice, following a simple, but somehow elegant melody. 'I can't hide the way I feel about you... anymore. I can't hold the hurt inside, keep the pain out of my eyes... anymore." My skin starts to do a full body crawl, starting at my toes and working it's way up to my scalp, till my hair is prickling. 'My tears no longer waiting, my resistance ain't that strong...'

He finally turns toward me, and I can see his expression, even in this dim light. Yes, there's pain in his eyes. Whatever he's doing right now, whatever brought him here... It isn't easy for him. He's fought himself over it, long and hard, and Mulder is perhaps the strongest, toughest enemy that Mulder has ever come up against.

'My mind keeps recreating a life with you alone.' He closes his eyes at that line, but opens them again quickly, and looks me in the eyes as the next line flows from the speakers. 'And I'm tired of pretending, I don't love you... anymore.'

He walks to me, and ends up standing before me, only inches away. 'Let me make one last appeal to show you how I feel about you.' He lifts his hand, and I almost flinch, but I don't, and I'm glad I don't. Because he doesn't hit, he doesn't slap. His palm settles against my cheek gently, cupping it. ''Cause there's no one else I swear, holds a candle anywhere next to you.'

My heart is pounding, my throat is dry. I lick my lips, and his eyes follow the path of my tongue, before returning to my eyes. There is such longing and heat in that look that I almost moan. 'My heart can't take the beating of not having you to hold. A small voice keeps repeating, from deep inside my soul...'

He leans forward till our foreheads are pressed together. Oh, God, is this what I think it is? It isn't some elaborate game, is it? I don't think so. I don't think Mulder has that sort of calculated cruelty in him. He knows how I feel, I've told him. Is he telling me, now, how HE feels?

'It says I can't keep pretending I don't love you anymore.'

He puts his arms around me. As his lips touch mine for the first time in a kiss that is willingly given, not forced and not even asked for, I hear the man on the CD singing, "I've got to take a chance or let it slip by, if I expect to get on with my life. And I'm tired of pretending I don't love you anymore."

The music soars, and he's kissing me, his tongue slipping past my lips to explore my mouth, his hands moving into my hair to hold me. But I'm not trying to pull away, God no. I meet him with every fiber of my being. I welcome him with body and heart and soul. Finally, finally, finally...

The clothes fall away, scattering on the floor. The sofa is wide enough, because we aren't going to make it to the bedroom. That can come later. I move him beneath me, and this time when he looks up at me, there is nothing negative in his expression. There is no guilt, no disgust, no hatred, thank God. There is nothing but heat, and longing... and acceptance.

I'm harder than I have ever been in my life, because I'm being offered the one thing that I truly want in this life. Fox Mulder is offering himself, without reservation and without condition. And he wants me. He still hasn't been able to say it out loud, he's let the song say it for him. But he will, soon. I'm going to give him what he needs to actually say the words. I'm going to be everything to him, because he already IS everything to me.

We move together. There is a sweet urgency to this act. It is the first time we've made love, not just had sex. I don't have lube or condoms, and I'm sure as hell not going to break the moment to go looking for them, so we just slide together, skin on skin, and it's enough. It's better than enough. It's perfect.

He wraps those long legs around me, and lifts to meet my thrusts, or arousals rubbing together with an exquisite friction that would probably drive me mad if it went on too long. But it doesn't last too long. We've both been wanting and needing this too long for it to be drawn out. Before the next repetition of the song ends, we are arching together, and he cries out my name as I feel his hot seed splash against my belly, triggering my own shattering orgasm.

Then I slip down on the couch, pulling him half on top of me so that we both fit. He holds me as tightly as I hold him, his head resting on my shoulder. I stroke his back, and his hair, feeling the final tremors ease out of his body as the last chorus of the song repeats. 'My tears no longer waiting, Oh my resistence ain't that strong. And my mind keeps recreating a love with you alone..."

There, in the dark, he finally speaks again, for the first time since the music started. As he reaches up again to touch my face, he whispers the last few words with the musician. "And I'm tired of pretending, I don't love you anymore."

Oh Fox, you said it. You said it after all.

* * *

Takes place some good while after 'Tired of Pretending'. Mulder and Krycek are now in a loving relationship, and Krycek has to go away for awhile.

* * *

The Essence That Is You  
By Scribe 

At Your Pleasure  
By Frank Labatay

Your soft, warm skin responds to the touch of my fingertips;  
eyes widen and lips swell in anticipation.  
Knowing that you love my touch just as I desire your closeness  
is an end in itself, my raison d'etre.  
... holding your lithe form close,

I am a man.  
You look into my eyes and kiss me back ...  
I understand the true joy of a couple in love.  
Bringing you happiness fills my heart,  
increases my need to share our secrets and intimate pleasures.  
Together or apart, near or far ...  
know that I love the essence that is you.

Alex

I told him before that he would come to me, eventually. He didn't believe it. Poor Mulder, so eager to believe some fairy tales, so reluctant to acknowledge some facts of life. He was mine from the moment we met. I think he knows that now...

"Never." How many times has he used that word to me? It was almost a litany in the middle and final time before he succumbed to the inevitable. "Never going to want you, never going to need you, never going to let you..."

He still says "never", but in different context now. "Never knew, never guessed, never let go, never stop..." Much more satisfying invocations of that word.

It took a long time, and the road was not smooth. I had to be stern with him at times. I had to hurt him, in order to bring him to the place where he broke through his doubts and fears. Sometimes we hurt the ones we love, all for their own good.

And it IS love, despite what the others, in his world and mine, might say. I know that Scully and Skinner have tried to pull him away from me: her with clinical analysis of my admittedly twisted psyche, him with simple disgust and moral outrage. They haven't succeeded. They won't succeed. He needs me, as much as I need him.

Like now, as we prepare to make love. He's naked already, on the bed, on his belly. He's pillowed his face on his arms, turned away. In some ways, he's still shy with me, even after all we've been through, all that has been taken, and given.

I sit beside him, shirtless, and stroke the long expanse of his back, running my hand down the shallow groove that marks his spine, and I whisper to him, words from the poem I printed off the Internet this morning. It made me think of him. "Your soft, warm skin responds to the touch of my fingertips."

He shivers slightly. I put my hand in his soft hair, gently but firmly turning his face toward me. The hazel eyes are already darkening with passion. His mouth is slightly bruised, lips tender from the ravenous kisses I bestowed before allowing him to strip. "Eyes widen and lips swell in anticipation." I kiss him again, and his lips part eagerly. I remember when I had to hold a gun to his head to win even this small favor. He hasn't been that reluctant for a long time.

I explore the honey sweet interior of his mouth lazily, licking and probing till his tongue writhes in answer, seeking it's place in my own mouth. I welcome it, sucking and biting the tempting morsel.

When he has to pull away for breath, I again let the poet's words speak for me. "Knowing that you love my touch just as I desire your closeness is an end in itself, my raison da?Tetre."

He surprises me a little when he speaks the next lines, his voice husky. "Holding your lithe form close, I am a man."

I'm touched, and thrilled. He's overcome another obstacle, because this troubled him. He somehow felt that being with me made him less of a man. The homosexual aspect of it was difficult for him at first, but the idea that he could give himself to someone who had hurt him, and betrayed him... That was nearly impossible for him to beat down.

Yes, I did that. I regret it, but it happened. I was different back then. Well, a little. I was owned by the Consortium, I was their creature. If they said hurt him, that was what I had to do. But those days are gone now. Thank God he realizes this, and has forgiven.

As I lean over him, bemused by this revelation, he continues speaking, paraphrasing the poem, but meaning the words. "I look into your eyes and kiss you back... I understand the true joy of a couple in love."

He lifts himself, his lips seeking mine, and we kiss again. I feel something press into my palm, and look down to find that he has given me the tube of lubricant. His long fingers work at my belt buckle, draw down my fly. He looks into my eyes and says softly, "Just yourself tonight, Alex. I want to really FEEL you inside me."

I stroke his cheek. "Are you sure? I should open you a little first."

He shakes his head, biting that full lower lip that has always driven me crazy. "No. Just your dick tonight. Please?"

I smile. Now, how on EARTH could any man say no to THAT? I open the tube and squeeze out the cool, clear gel. I'm already hard. I was hard from the moment I stepped out of my car on the way to his apartment. He does that to me.

He watches as I slick the greasy substance on my rigid prick, smiling when he sees how much extra I slather on the head. He murmurs, "If you're not careful, you're going to be sliding out on the backstroke."

"If I remember correctly, you're tight enough to hold me in." Again he shivers. I reach over with my anointed hand and smooth some of the lube on the thick, hard cock that is twitching against one long thigh. "There you are, love. That will make things a little nicer for you."

"You're so good to me." There is only a little irony in the words, and it's gentle.

He gets on his hands and knees, but I push down on the base of his spine, urging him back onto his stomach. "If I'm going to fuck you without stretching you first, I'm going to do it shallowly." He starts to protest, and I smack him on the butt, drawing a yelp. "No argument."

"Yes sir."

I caress the slightly pinked flesh. "Anyway, you'll like it. I'll hit your prostate more often." I smack the other cheek, and he yelps again.

"What was THAT for?"

"Nothing really. You're just so pretty in pink." I push the muscular globes apart, revealing the deep valley, and the tiny puckered opening. As many times as I've fucked him, it never ceases to amaze me how something that small can accommodate my rampant prick. But he does, and does it magnificently, and enjoys it.

We've both been tested, and we're clean, and exclusive, so we don't use condoms much anymore. I'm grateful for that, because I positively WORSHIP the way he feels. I fit my cock head against the tight ring of muscle, and pause. "Fox, what's your safe word?"

His fingers are scratching at the sheets in anticipation, his voice is breathy. "Trust."

"Use it if you need to." He nods, and I begin to push.

God, he's so tight, so tight.

I move slowly, teeth gritted. This is as much for myself as to prevent hurting him. He's so tight that it's almost painful for me, even with the lavish application of lubricant.

I hurt him anyway. It's impossible not to, without having loosened him first. The satiny walls of his ass are slowly pushed apart by the rough intrusion of my erection. He makes a soft whine as I sink in, but he doesn't say the word. And when I pass over the almost imperceptible swell of his prostate, the whine morphs into a purr, and I have to smile.

Once I'm seated as deep as I intend to go, I pause to let him adjust. He lies quietly, and I can feel his flesh warming and softening around me. Finally I feel that he's ready, and begin to draw back. He immediately tries to thrust back at me, to recapture the inches that he's lost. I laugh now, and press down on his hips, holding him in place. He mutters a protest, and I scold, "Greedy bastard."

"You're one to talk." For that I pause, glans only trapped inside his body, till he starts to squirm. "Please, Alex."

I relent, and slide in again with a firm, smooth stroke. I hold him down and fuck him, slowly and gently. He wants to buck back, speed things up, but I don't let him. I'm going to be tender with him, whether he wants it right now or not.

He finally realizes that this isn't going to be one of the fast and furious nights, and accepts it sweetly. His attempts to shove back become small, slow undulations, and I ease my grip, letting him move. He finds my rhythm easily. Oh, we fit together so well. It makes me want to cry when I think of the time that was wasted, truly it does.

Tonight is a bit of a farewell screw. I have to leave tomorrow. Oh, not forever. Not even for long. But it will still be time apart, and neither one of us enjoys that. This is as much to reassure him of my return as anything else.

I slide my hands under him, pushing his busy fingers away so I can caress his lovely, strong cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts. My hands slide easily on the lube; both the commercial one I applied, and the natural one that leaks from the tip of his cock. He whimpers his thanks wordlessly.

I'm nearing the end now, and I begin to speed up. I had told him this would be shallow, but I can't resist. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him up on his knees and settling between his wide spread legs. Now I can plumb deeper, and I do, burying my full length in the narrow, heated channel that's already given me so much pleasure.

His head goes back, that always slightly messy brown hair tossing. He moans deeply. "God, yeah, Alex. Fuck me!"

Does he know how long I waited to hear those words from him? How often I dreamed them? That's why they're almost as precious to me now as the words, "I love you." It's been almost equally hard for Mulder to say them both, and I know he means them.

The last minutes of our coupling are as intense as any we've ever shared. I drive myself into him relentlessly, he takes all of me, without reservation. I wordlessly try to tell him with every thrust into his bowels, with every squeeze and stroke to his throbbing prick, that I will be back, I will never leave him, my love will not change, even if the distance between us is great.

I grunt with the last lunge that draws a wail from him, feeling his seed spill over my fast moving hands even as I erupt inside him. "Together or apart, near or far..."

We collapse in the sticky, sweaty tangle that always results when we share ourselves. I feel the last shudders of his orgasm, feel the milking ripple of his internal muscles, stripping the last drop of come from my softening prick. Finally I pull out of him, and drop down beside him.

He turns on his side, burrowing his face against my sweat slick chest, tongue softly seeking my still erect and aching nipples. I gain my breath as he licks and sucks. It's more a sign of affection than an attempt to further arouse me now, and I cuddle him close.

I tip his chin up so that his hazel eyes meet mine, and whisper the final line of the poem. "Know that I love the essence that is you."

His smile is slow, sweet, and tender, and I know that he understands...

=====  
Scribe

People ask me why I'm still single, and I tell them my reasons are biblical. I Thessalonians 4:13 "But I will not have you ignorant brethern..."

I write because I must, not for profit. This is a good thing, because I'm sure not making any money off it.

I do so love emails. This way I can type, and no one has to know that the only writing implement they allow me is a crayon...

* * *

Title: Heart, We Will Forget Him  
Author: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Alex/Fox  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: Poetic Series  
Archive: Down In the Basement, Slashing Mulder, WWOMB, CKoS,Texfiles, others ask, provide a credit, and post my email address for feedback Criticism: Yes.  
Feedback: Yes. My private forum at fanfiction.net is http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?fanaction=userforum&RoomID=1762  
Web pages: Scribe Scribbles at http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles for original prose, poetry and madness, and fanfiction. The Poetic Site, for my X Files Krycek/Mulder Poetic slash series: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver. Most of my work can also be found at http://www.fanfiction.net under the name Scribe.  
Disclaimer: Alex and Fox belong to Chris Carter, the brilliant idiot.  
Summary: Alex and Fox have hit a rough spot in the early part of their relationship.  
Author's Notes: Emily Dickinson died a spinster, but seems to have known a thing or two about love. Not too long after Tired of Pretending. The first serious fight after the commitment was made. This has already gotten a flame at ff.n (no name or email address, of course). Let's see... I'm a sick son of a... and I'd better watch my mouth or thoughts or they will get me in a load of trouble. Someone tell this bigoted idiot that 'thought police' is only a metaphoric term, and they should learn to read the CLEARLY DISPLAYED  
WARNINGS!  
Warning: graphic m/m sex, alcohol abuse.  
Rating: NC-17

* * *

Heart, We Will Forget Him  
by Scribe

Heart, We Will Forget Him  
by Emily Dickinson

Heart, we will forget him,  
You and I, tonight!  
You must forget the warmth he gave,  
I will forget the light.

When you have done pray tell me,  
Then I, my thoughts, will dim.  
Haste!--'lest while you're lagging  
I may remember him!

Roy polished a glass, watching the tall, rumpled man sitting at the end of the bar. He'd been polishing this same glass for the last ten minutes. Maybe he should put it down and start another one before he worked his way through it.

There were three shot glasses lined up on the bar before the lanky man with the hazel eyes. He was toying with a fourth, turning it slowly around and around, staring into the amber liquid like it was a scrying glass and he was seeing something particularly interesting reflected in it. He'd been here for the last two hours, and the bartender had the uneasy feeling that this wasn't the first bar he'd visited.

He hadn't seemed even a LITTLE drunk when he'd come in. But then again, he hadn't said a hell of a lot. He'd just gone to his seat, taken off his coat, and ordered in the fewest words necessary to get his meaning across. "Tequila." The bartender had set it up. While he was getting out the salt and lime, the guy had slammed it back, rapping the shot glass back down on the bar.

Roy had stood there with a salt shaker in one hand and a lime wedge in the other, feeling a little foolish. The guy had tapped his nail on the empty glass and said, "Another." Roy had put the accompaniments on a cocktail napkin in front of the customer, gotten the bottle of Jose Cuervo, and refilled the glass. (Remembering this, Roy winced. That meant that was the FIFTH tequila shooter the guy was working on. Shit.) Again the guy had ignored the fixings and tossed back the shot. Then he'd looked into the glass again and said, in a clear voice,"Heart, we will forget him."

Roy had resisted the urge to wiggle a finger in his ear. "Beg pardon?"

"Heart, we will forget him, you and I tonight."

"Oh-kay." Mavis had come to the other end of the bar with a drink order, and he had been happy to go fill it. Good, a daiquiri and a pina colada. Something to keep him occupied. Mavis had leaned on the bar as he worked, and she had observed the man at the end of the bar with blatant curiosity.

They had mostly regulars, very few random customers, so a new one was interesting. "Hey Roy, whyn't ya talk him into taking a booth or a table? I could use the tip." She had studied him, taking in the lean, athletic body and handsome, melancholy face. "Wouldn't mind tryin' to work a good tip out of him."

Roy had slid him a quick glance. "You'd be wasting your time, Mave."

"Oh?" She had adjusted her neckline, exposing another half inch of cleavage. "What makes you say that?"

"Just take my word for it."When he had set up the third shot about a half hour later, > the guy had held it up as if in a toast and said, "You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light."

Roy had been torn. He'd had plenty of guys cry on his bar because their wives or girlfriends had done them wrong. *This isn't so different, is it?* He had looked at the guy's eyes. *Nah, not so different. Hurt is hurt.* So he had said, "You know, the alcohol isn't going to solve anything."

He had looked up, studying him. Finally he had said, "Maybe not, but it makes an excellent temporary anesthesia." He had gulped the shot. "When you have done, pray tell me, then I my thoughts will dim." He had held up one finger, as if making a point. "Haste! 'lest while you're lagging I may remember him." Finally he had picked up the lime wedge and squeezed it into his mouth, grimacing at the tartness. "Emily Dickinson."

Something had sparked in Roy's mind, some dim memory from high school. "You mean the 'I'm nobody' dame?"

The guy had blinked, like he was surprised, and the ghost of a smile had curved the corners of his lips. "Yeah." Roy had felt inordinately pleased with himself, but then the man had said, "Another."

Roy had poured, warning, "You have to slow up on these, fella."

"Sure." The fourth (no, wait a minute, the fifth. Or was it... Oh, shit. The Liquor Commission would have his nuts if anything happened to this guy when he left here.) had disappeared as quickly as the others.

"Crap. Look, I don't know what he did to ya, but he isn't worth this."

"You think so?" He had tapped the glass. "Another."

Roy had stared at him. "Look..."

"One more. That'll be the last one. I promise to drink it slow, and sit here till I can walk straight before I leave." Roy had regarded him doubtfully. "C'mon. Don't make me beg."

"I my thoughts will dim, huh?"

"Can you think of anything legal that will dim your > thoughts any faster?"

Sighing, Roy had poured the shot. "That's it. Make it last."

"Can do."

That had been almost an hour ago. Every now and then the guy touched the glass to his lips, but the liquid didn't lower by any apreciable measure. Roy shook his head, thinking, *Shit. Gay, bi, whatever. That's as real a heartache as any I've ever seen. I don't think the forgetting is working.*

***********************************************

Fox

*A bar. Here I am again in a bar. No, bars, plural: there were those other two before I found one empty enough. Shit. I thought I was past this. All it takes is one little fight with Alex, and here I am again.*

He touched the rim of the shot glass to his lips and let a trickle of liquid fire ease down his throat. Oh, this was nasty stuff when you drank it slow. But the dispenser had said this was the last one, and he knew he was already too drunk to find another bar safely at this hour, so he had to make it last.

"Screw you, Alex," he muttered, feeling unbelievably resentful. *You're the one who should be out getting drunk, not me. No, wait. I'M the injured party so yeah, I should be getting drunk.* He sighed. "Fuck it. ONE of us had to get drunk."

It had been that 'little job' he'd said he had to do in Chicago. Fox had thought he was on a job interview for a position with an electronics firm, and it had turned out he'd been working as a courier again. Fox never would have known if he hadn't knocked his own key down the kitchen drain and been too lazy to unhook the pipes to fish it out. So he'd gone prospecting in Alex's jacket pockets and found the receipt for the rental car.

He hadn't brought it up right away. No, he had allowed Alex finish his shower and get comfortable, then begin poking around in his refrigerator in (he should know by now) the vain hope of finding something that was more than marginally edible.

He'd test sniffed several containers, then settled on some moo goo gai pan that he was PRETTY sure was safe, since it was chicken and not pork. While he'd been waiting for the microwave to ding, Fox had flipped the receipt over his shoulder so that it floated down to land on the counter before him.

His back to Mulder, Krycek had gone stiff, then slumped. "Son of a bitch. You went through my pockets."

"I needed your key because I wanted to go get some take out. You want to explain that?"

Krycek had turned, green eyes cool. "You want to explain why you needed the key when I was going to be right here to let you in?"

"Don't start. You were supposed to be in Philadelphia, talking to Elecore. How the hell did you end up in ILLINOIS?"

"I talked to Elecore last week. It wasn't for me. What were you doing rooting in my pockets, Mulder? Looking for evidence that I have a blonde on the side?"

"I don't think I'd be so pissed if I thought that was what it was. But it isn't, is it?" Alex was too much of an old hand at deception to show much reaction. There had beem just a slow blink, but it had been enough. "Shit! It was THEM, wasn't it? You did something for THEM."

"Will you calm down? It was just a little job, nothing major, nothing global, nothing even ILLEGAL, really. Well," he had paused, "not as long as the guy doesn't REPORT it."

"I don't fucking BELIEVE this." Mulder had rubbed his face. "You told me you were through with them."

Krycek had shrugged. "Mulder do you have any idea how hard it is to get all that shit off? The smell still lingers, and they can find me by the scent. I've reached an understanding with them. Just a favor now and then, and they know better than to ask for anything really heavy. A little carrying when the item is, shall we say, delicate. A message passed in person when other means are either ineffective, or too dangerous. Things like that."

Mulder had heared the chill in his own voice, and had marveled at how he could speak coldly when he felt like he was about to explode. "Okay Alex, how many betrayals does this make?" He had seen the pain flare in those green eyes. Mulder had said he wasn't going to bring that up again. Well, Krycek had said he wasn't going to have anything to do with his 'handlers' again, too.

Fox had almost regretted his words, but then Alex had reacted in the only manner that his previous experience would allow: he struck back. "I wouldn't go there, Mulder. Not when you got the evidence you're using to flay me by spying."

"Wait a minute, I'm not the one who lied."

"If you'd just left it alone you wouldn't have had your feelings hurt."

"Had my..." Mulder scowled, gulping the last of the tequila and lining up the final shot glass. *Like I was some junior high girl who'd just discovered that her steady boyfriend had been on a date with another cheerleader when he said he was home studying.*

It had sort of blown off the scale after that. Mulder couldn't remember all of what had been said: he just knew that it had all been hurtful, on both sides. They each knew where all the other's buttons were located, and had not only pushed them, but had POUNDED on them.

It hadn't gotten physical, though. Mulder contemplated this as he took another sip. That surprised him, now that he thought about it. All the times he and Krycek had beaten and bashed each other, and it had never gotten past verbal this time. There hadn't even been a shove.

And he hadn't ordered Krycek out of his apartment. No, he'd grabbed the key that had been sort of the trigger of this episode and stomped out, slamming the door so hard that it shook in its frame. Then he'd gone hunting for the proper place to drink himself into a stupor. Hopefully by the time he crawled back home Krycek would have removed his denim-and-leather clad ass from the premises.

*And what the hell am I supposed to do if he hasn't? I'm gonna be too damn drunk to throw him out unless he's gotten just as shitfaced as I have, and that doesn't seem likely. Crap. I wonder if I have enough on me for a hotel room? If I don't... No, wait. That's why God invented credit cards. Okay, so I can spend what's left of the night in a hotel room. Alone. In an empty bed.* He put his forehead down on the bar. "Fuck."

***********************************************

Roy

*Oh, shit, he's going to sleep. Actually, that might not be such a bad idea, but I have to close up in about twenty minutes, and I can't leave him inside, and if I sent him out like this and something happens to him, it's MY ass. I don't want to call the cops on him, he sounds like he has enough crap in his life right now. Maybe send him home in a cab? But Romeo may still be there. I'd rather not think about enabling a domestic dispute. Christ. Curse all the unfaithful boyfriends in the world.*

"Yo, Mac? I'm closing up in less than a half hour. Better start, um, gathering your resources." The man lifted his shoulders in a sort of a shrug, but didn't raise his head. *I'm gonna have to roll him out of here.* "Want me to call you a cab?"

"Why would you do that? Have I turned yellow?" Silence. A sigh. "Yeah, I know. Bad joke, but what do you want from me? I'm drunk and depressed."

He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Lemme visit the little boys' room and I'll be good to go."

Roy rather doubted that, judging from the weave in his walk.

He sent Mavis home, since there was only one couple left in a side booth, and began to shut the bar down. Mavis was reaching for the door handle when the door swung open. The guy entering stepped aside to let her pass. She did so slowly, with a regretful, lingering glance. That was another one she wouldn't have minded working for a tip. He grinned at her and tipped his cap, but his bright green eyes were busy scanning the bar.

He seemed to consider for a moment, and Roy called. "I can fit in one more for you, if you hurry."

"I'm not really looking for a drink. I'm looking for someone, but he doesn't appear to be here." Still, the man stepped into the bar, letting the door swing closed behind him, eyes probing the darkened corners. "Has a tall, morose man with hazel eyes been in tonight?"

Roy almost winced. "You mean the Dickinson guy?"

Dark brows rose. He came closer and leaned on the bar. Roy could hear the leather of his jacket creaking as he rested an elbow on the counter. "No, Dickinson is not his name."

"I mean he was talking Dickinson." The eyebrows climbed higher. Roy blew out a breath. "I'm not putting it right. You know how some people sing when they're drunk?" The stranger nodded. "Well, this guy was reciting poetry."

A slow smile. "Yes, that's Mulder, all right. He was drunk, you say?"

"Still is. Has to be, considering how much he put down." Roy indicated the shot formation at the other end of the bar.

***********************************************

Alex

*Dammit, Fox. Things were going so well. Why'd you have to go be your snoopy self and spoil it?*

Alex had sighed, poking dispiritedly at the moo goo gai pan he'd retrieved from the microwave after Mulder had left. It had been almost as cold as when he had taken it out of the refrigerator and, though it smelled pretty good, he had absolutely no appetite.

*When someone makes you lose your appetite, it's serious shit.*

He had dumped the food and rinsed the dish, then leaned over the sink, head drooping. *Why the fuck did I leave the damn receipt in my pocket? I know better. Shit, all the years I've had to survive by leaving no trace, I fucking KNOW better. I knew there was a chance he'd go through my pockets. It happens often enough with other couples, why should it be any different with us?*

Alex had closed his eyes, growling, "No, I did NOT want to get caught. How fucking Freudian can you get?"

He had slumped in the kitchen chair, staring off into space. The truth of the matter was that he had been caught doing something he'd known he shouldn't do. He knew it would hurt Fox, but he honestly hadn't been able to see any way around it, and he'd figured that what Mulder didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Can you say 'cop out'?" Alex had muttered. He should have talked to Mulder about it, that was clear enough now. Together they might have been able to figure out another solution to the problem. At the least Mulder wouldn't have felt betrayed. He might have been pissed, but he wouldn't have been... hurt.

Alex sighed again, getting up and putting on his jacket. There were three types of places he could be: a bar, a club, or with Scully. He probably wasn't with Scully. She'd made her disapproval of their relationship clear, and Mulder wouldn't want to hear 'I told you so' (and that bitch WOULD say it).

That left bars and clubs, and he quickly discarded the idea of a club. Many people in a situation like this would go out looking for a revenge fuck, but Mulder wasn't like that. So Krycek had started checking the bars, beginning just outside the local neighborhood, because Mulder wouldn't want to be anywhere he could be easily found. Krycek had focused on small, dark, and underpopulated places.

He had word of him in two places. A tall, good looking, hazel eyed, depressed man wasn't all that hard to track.

He'd become more worried as the time went by. It would be closing time soon. Where would Mulder go once he was turned out of the bar? He wouldn't go home, the stubborn nit.

He had almost run into a woman coming out of the last bar he tried. She had made sure to give him a good look down her neckline as she slid past, but he had barely noticed, as he was busy Mulder-hunting. The place was pretty deserted, and he didn't hold forth much hope, but there had been a spark of recognition when he'd described him to the bartender.

"You mean the Dickinson guy?"

Bingo. They had exchanged a few more words, and the bartender had indicated what looked like a whole troop of empty shot glasses. Drunk? He'd be surprised if Mulder could have stayed on the stool without being tied on after that intake.

Alex had stared at the bartender and said softly, "And you let him leave in that state?"

The bartender had said hastily, "No. Hell, I know better than that. No, he's in the can."

Krycek had closed his eyes for a second. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd prayed, but if he'd been inclined, then would have been the time to offer thanks. The bartender was continuing. "I was just about to call a cab for him."

Alex had smiled. That smile had been known to make grown men wet their pants. "No need for that. I'll see that he gets home."

"Great." The bartender frowned, then said, "Are you 'him'?"

*What did Mulder tell this guy? I'd expect him to rattle on about his X Files: he likes watching their expressions. But I didn't think he'd spill his personal life to a bartender.* "Who do you mean by 'him'?"

"From the poem. "Heart, we will forget him, you and I tonight.""

Krycek felt a sharp pang. "That was the poem he recited?"

"Yeah. Something about the warmth he gave and the light. But it didn't sound like there was a hell of a lot of forgetting going on, even after he poured on the Jose. But if you ARE him, are things gonna be all right if you go back there? I mean, I don't want any trouble here."

"Yes, it will be all right. If we were going to beat the crap out of each other, we would have done it by now."

The guy frowned. "This has happened often enough for you to have a pattern? Have you two considered counseling?"

Alex smirked. "Thank you, Dr. Ruth. We'll take that under consideration." He started back toward the john.

Mulder was leaning over the sink when Krycek came in. Not washing his hands, not looking in the mirror, just leaning on the sink, head down, hair hanging in his face. Alex stood for a moment, watching him. He thought that Mulder was too drunk to notice him, but then he said quietly, "Get out of here, memory."

Krycek went to him. "The barteneder said you were quoting 'Heart, We Will Forget Him.' Do you think that Emily would approve of having her poem inspire a tequila binge?"

"It didn't inspire it--you did, and I don't know why not. I hear she went heavy on the brandy when she made fruitcake. How the hell did you find me?"

"I'll always find you, Mulder. You should know that by now. Are you ready to come home now?"

"Piss off."

"You can't stay here. The bartender is ready to close up, and I'm not leaving you to wander around in this state."

"Excuse me, what part of 'piss off' didn't you > understand? How do you say 'fuck off' in Russian?"

"Yeb vas."

"Yeb vas, Krycek. Understand now?"

"Mulder, I'm sorry."

"Right."

"No, I mean it." He put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. The other man stiffened, but didn't pull away, and Alex continued. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd worry." Mulder finally looked at him, and Krycek almost flinched at the pain in his eyes. "I swear, it wasn't a big thing."

"Alex, with them you never know how big it is. Don't you realize that if anything happened to you..." His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. "You could have just disappeared, and I would never know. I couldn't even hope for closure when a hunter stumbled on your remains some day because your records have been so fucked up that you'd probably never be identified. And not to know..."

Alex felt his teeth grate. *Oh, God, Samantha. I forgot. No wonder he was so upset. It wasn't just that he was mad I went behind his back--he can't stand the thought of having someone else in his life just disappear.*

"I can't promise I'll never have any dealings with them again. It's going to take time to pull me out of their tangle. But I'll promise to never again lie to you about where I'm going, or what I'm doing. I may not tell you 100 percent, for security's sake, but I won't lie. Will that be enough?"

Fox stared at him. "I don't know," Krycek felt his gut knot. Then Mulder said softly, "but I guess we'll have to try."

Tentatively Krycek slid his arms around Mulder's shoulders, leaned in, and kissed him. Mulder stayed still, not responding, but not rejecting. Alex slid his hand up into Mulder's hair, holding him firm, and pressed the kiss till Mulder's lips parted, and he could slip his tongue inside. Still holding the older man, he turned him and started backing him up.

Mulder pulled his head back. "Alex, what are you... Fuck!" His butt had hit the door to a stall, and Alex kept moving him back. "Wait a minute. These things were never intended for two people."

"I can't help it if the architects were short sighted prudes." Alex had managed to squeeze both of them into the stall, and now he bumped the door shut, turning Mulder loose so he could slide the bolt. Then he pushed Mulder up against the wall and reached for his belt.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Mulder, haven't I done this often enough for you to figure out what comes next? No? Well, I'm willing to keep it up till you learn the proper sequence. I open your pants, then I suck your cock."

He turned his cap around so that the bill faced back. It made him look like a high school kid, but most of them couldn't manage such a seductive look.

"Oh, geez, Alex! Not in a public restroom. What if someone comes in?"

"They'll have to find their own date. I'm not doing anyone but you any more, remember?"

Alex had the buckle undone and was lowering his zipper. "Look, we can go home, okay? I'm too drunk to do anything..." Mulder's voice trailed off as Krycek slipped his hand into his fly. Warm, knowing fingers closed gently around his cock and began to rub. There was an immediate response. Mulder's head fell back against the cool metal of the wall. "Why here and now?"

"You were trying to forget, Mulder. You need a reminder. I don't know about my light," he dropped to his knees. "but surely you can remember my warmth."

Mulder gasped as Alex took him in his mouth, sinking down slowly till he'd swallowed his entire prick, then drawing back up with equal langour. "Okay, maybe I'm NOT too drunk." But he was glad of the wall at his back. It wasn't long before he needed that support. He clutched at the wall with one hand, palm flat on the graffiti smeared surface, while the other hand gripped Alex's head, gently guiding him. The room was silent exept for the soft gasps and the tiny slurps that echoed off the tile walls.

Alex slid Mulder's cock out of his mouth and bent further, licking his balls firmly. A finger slid up the length of Mulder's stiff cock, becoming coated with saliva and the pre-ejaculate fluid that seeped from the tiny slit to ooze over the sensitive, swollen cock head. Then Krycek sucked the hard-on into his mouth again as that hand slid deep between Mulder's legs and back, till it teased at his rectum. With a grunt Mulder pressed back and down, impaling himself.

It went on for several more minutes: Alex finger fucking Mulder while he blew him. Even though the room was brightly lit by florescents, Mulder couldn't help remembering that dark, foggy alley between warehouses down by the dock. There Alex had taken him for the first time, threatening him into initial submission with a gun and sucking him off, just like this.

The memory of that encounter, the almost brutal sensuality of it, drove Mulder over the edge, and he spilled his essence into Krycek's accepting mouth, shuddering as his lover drank it, then used his tongue to clean the last drops from his softening prick.

When he was done, Alex hugged Mulder, leaning his cheek against his thigh, and Mulder bent to embrace him, curving over his body. Alex whispered, "Do you think that will be enough to remind you, or do you need another lesson?" Mulder's only answer was to pull off Alex's cap and drop a kiss on his soft hair.

***********************************************

Roy

Instinct told him that it probably wasn't a good idea to go into that men's room, but it was past closing time. As he approached, he thought that at least there hadn't been a lot of screaming and crashing. That was a good sign, wasn't it? On the other hand, there was such a thing as too quiet. Maybe one of them had strangled the other, and was now trying to figure out what to do with the body.

Instinct told him to knock before going in, too, but he didn't pay any more attention to the second instinct than he had the first. But at least he had the good sense to be QUIET about it.

Roy eased the door open slowly, glad that he'd oiled the hydraulic slide last week, and peeked inside. He frowned. Where the hell were they? They couldn't have gotten out without him knowing. Yeah, the back exit was near the men's room, but he would have heard the alarm buzzer if they'd gone out that way.

Then he saw the two pairs of legs in the stall. The legs in trousers were just standing there. The legs in blue jeans were kneeling in front of the others. *Uh oh.* He stepped back out, and eased the door shut. *Okay, you knew it happened, you just didn't expect it to happen here.* Then he found himself smiling. *I guess this means that they made up.* He cleared his throat and rapped sharply on the door. "Time, gentlemen." His smile broadened. "Don't... uh, don't dillydally." 

                     

* * *

Title: When Thou Dost Go  
Author: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: Krycek/Mulder  
Status: Finished  
Series/Sequel: The Poetic Series  
Feedback:   
Website: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles. Poetic series at http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, neither do I make any profit from this venture.  
Summary: In 'The Essence That Is You', Alex was preparing to go on a trip. Now, in a hotel room, he receives a call from his lonely lover.  
Rating: NC-17

* * *

When Thou Dost Go  
By Scribe

To an Absent Lover  
By Helen Hunt Jackson

That so much change should come when thou dost go,  
Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite.  
The very house seems dark as when the light  
Of lamps goes out. Each wonted thing doth grow  
So altered, that I wander to and fro  
Bewildered by the most familiar sight,  
And feel like one who rouses in the night  
From dream of ecstasy, and cannot know  
At first if he be sleeping or awake.  
My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake  
Hath grown, dear one!  
Teach me to be more wise.  
I blush for all my foolishness doth lack;  
I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes.  
Teach me, dear one,--but first thou must come back!

Motel rooms, motel rooms, motel rooms. How much of my life have I spent in fucking Motel 6 and Best Western, or Holiday Inn when I'm flush? I examine the hair I taped across the gap between the door and its frame before I left this morning. Still intact. I'm not here on any SIGNIFICANT errand--nothing that would matter to the Old Men or the ones they served, but it's better to be careful.

In the room I quickly throw the deadbolt, not trusting the automatic lock that the management has provided, then kick a small wedge of wood under the door. Let's see anyone get in without a SWAT battering ram.

Finally satisfied with the security precautions (can't do a damn thing about that fucking window, but at least it's SMALL), I twitch the curtains shut a little tighter. Drawing my gun from the holster that hangs under my arm, I flick off the safety and give the room a quick, but thorough check. I even look under the low-slung bed (Mulder told me about that weird-ass family of incestuous mutants who kept Mom on a scooter board under the bed. Talk about a mental image.)

When I'm sure that the place is clear, I lay the gun on the night stand, not bothering to put the safety back on. After all, I'm the only one in this room, and I'm not going to accidentally blow my foot off. Anyway, in the event that someone else DOES get into the room, and I have to use my gun, well... I don't want the safety on then, do I?

Sighing, I start to undress. Let's see, it's nine here, that means it's around midnight back in D.C. Damn, I guess I'd better not call Fox, since he has to go to work tomorrow. I wish I'd thought of it earlier.

When I'm stripped to my dark blue jockeys, I flip the spread down to the foot of the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I debate showering now, or in the morning. If I were back east, I'd see if I could drag Mulder in with me. Damn, he's fun when he's wet.

I stretch, grunting as cartilage cracks, feeling the tightness in my muscles. I better get to a gym pretty soon. This gig isn't as vigorous as my old action was, and I don't want to get out of shape. Not only would it be dangerous, but now I have someone to stay hard for.

The phone rings. I'm startled, and it takes me three rings to answer it. It's either my contact in the security company, or... "Hello?"

"Hey."

I smile, feeling the tension begin to ease from my body. "Hey, yourself."

"I got the number off the answering machine. Where have you been?"

"Remember, mother, it's later for you than it is for me. I just got back from supper. What are you doing up so late?" There's silence on the other end. "Babe? C'mon, what are you doing?"

"Just feeling kind of lonely."

I settle back on the bed, propping myself on the pillows. There's a wistfulness in his voice that I know I need to deal with. Just hearing it makes me feel lonely, and I don't need any help for that. "You've been alone before."

"I know." He's silent again. When he speaks, his voice is low, and almost puzzled. "It's different now."

"Why is it different?"

"You know."

"Tell me."

There's a soft laugh. "That so much change should come when thou dost go, is mystery that I cannot ravel quite."

"Oh, and you're an expert mystery raveler, Mulder. Mm, not Teasdale?"

"Helen Hunt Jackson. 'To An Absent Lover'."

"You're so good at this, Mulder. Yes, I've heard that one."

"The very house seems dark as when the light of lamps goes out."

"You telling me that you're lying there in the dark?"

"Yes. All alone, in the dark."

"What are you wearing?"

Again he chuckles. "The checked boxers you gave me for April Fools Day."

"Take them off." I hear his soft intake of breath. "You missing me, Fox?"

"God, yes."

"Then take them off--slowly." I hear the rustle of cloth, and I run my fingers lightly over the bulge that is starting to rise inside my shorts. "Close your eyes, and touch yourself." Quiet breathing. "I'm touching you, Fox. Can you feel it? Can you feel my hands on you?"

A quiet moan. "Yes."

I push my shorts down, freeing my prick. *Amazing. I'm already half-hard. Oh, Fox, what you do to me.* "Keep talking to me. I want to hear the rest of the poem."

"Each wonted thing doth grow so altered, that I wander to and fro bewildered by the most familiar sight. That's what I did tonight--I just roamed around the apartment. The couch wasn't right, because you weren't sitting on it. The bed isn't right, because you aren't lying here with me."

I stroke myself, eyes closed, as I imagine Fox in that bed that we've shared so often. "Are you touching me, Fox?"

"Yes, Alex. I'm holding your cock. You're so warm."

"I'm with you now. I can see you, and you're beautiful. Your mouth is swollen from where I've been kissing you. You make me crazy." I pull at myself quickly and firmly, imagining his long-fingered hand wrapped around me. "I feel like one who rouses in the night from dream of ecstasy," my voice catches, and it takes me a moment to continue. "and cannot know at first if he be sleeping or awake." He moans, and I grow harder. "Keep talking. You're slick now, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Your pre-come is delicious, Mulder. Let me taste it." There's a soft, wet sound that makes me twitch. I know that he has lifted his hand to his mouth and is licking away the warm, salty fluid.

"My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake hath grown, dear one!" he breathes, his voice husky, wavering.

I hear the quick, patting sounds of flesh-on-flesh as he masturbates, and the thought of him touching himself, imagining that it's me, almost brings me to the edge myself.

His voice is strained, almost sobbing now. "Teach me to be more wise. I blush for all my foolishness doth lack." He gasps deeply, his voice a whimper. "I fear to seem a coward in... in thine eyes."

"Now, Fox! Come for me now, sweetheart! Now, with me."

I hear the choked cry that has become so dear and so familiar. "Alex!" The sound of my name called with such passion and longing does it. I answer him as I come, my seed spilling on my belly.

For a few moments there is silence, except for the sound of our breathing. Even though we are thousands of miles apart, we are close enough now for it to mingle. At last I say, "Better?"

I smile when I hear the purr. "You've got such a good touch."

I laugh. "We ought to hang up. This is long distance, and I know how much you make. It would've been cheaper if you'd called a 900 line."

"Alex!" The tone isn't hurt (he knows I'm joking), but it's mildly exasperated. "How much longer are you going to be out there?"

"Two more days, maybe three." There's a pause. "I'll call YOU tomorrow. I can put it on my expense account."

"They won't give you grief over it?"

"They know I'm worth it. Are you going to be all right now?"

"Yeah. But call, okay?"

"Sure, babe." Silence. We aren't good at saying good-bye to each other, Fox and I.

At last I hear him whisper, "Teach me, dear one,--but first thou must come back!" There's a click, then the buzz of a dial tone.

I put the receiver back on the hook and reach for a tissue from the box on the night stand. As I begin to wipe myself down, I murmur, "That so much change should come when thou dost go..."

* * *

Title: Love's Trinity  
Author/pseudonym: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: None  
Rating: R for language  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: The Poetic Series  
Archive: Yes, to any archive that recieves this (RS, WWOMB, allslash, etc.)  
Feedback: Pretty please.  
E-mail address for feedback:   
Other websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver for Poetic Series (Mulder/Krycek) slash.  
Disclaimers: I do not own these characters or concepts. This is written strictly for entertainment, and no profit has been made. Notes: This story was inspired by someone who mentioned that since Fox had acknowledged his love for Alex, they hoped that Skinner and Dana could come to accept it.  
Summary: Mulder tries to explain his relationship with Alex to Scully.

* * *

Love's Trinity  
By Scribe

Love's Trinity  
by Alfred Austin

Soul, heart, and body, we thus singly name,  
Are not in love divisible and distinct,  
But each with each inseparably link'd.  
One is not honour, and the other shame,  
But burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame.  
They do not love who give the body and keep  
The heart ungiven; nor they who yield the soul,  
And guard the body. Love doth give the whole;  
Its range being high as heaven, as ocean deep,  
Wide as the realms of air or planet's curving sweep.

"What do you want to drink? I have beer and a little red wine, or I have tea, and I think..." Mulder rummaged in the refrigerator, "one Hawaiian Punch."

Dana looked up from the carton of dim sum she'd just opened, distracted from her thoughts that dumplings were always too cold when you took them 'to go'. "Hawaiian Punch? Since when do you drink Hawaiian Punch?" She eyed the bright blue can he was studying, and noticed the small smile playing about his lips. "That's Krycek's, isn't it?"

"I don't think he'd mind, if you want it." The smile broadened. "He always gets a red moustache, no matter how careful he is."

"Give me a beer, and put that away before I lose my appetite."

Mulder brought two beers to the table and sat down. "You know, every time I hear 'chicken fried rice', I get a mental picture of some great, breaded, deep-fried slab. Leave some of the ribs."

She twisted the top off her beer as Mulder began to fill his own plate. "You're stocking groceries for him?"

Mulder was trying to pick around the broccoli in the broccoli beef. "Just a few things--snacks. You know--sodas, goldfish crackers. He likes the ranch and pizza kind."

Scully drank a little beer as Mulder began to eat, then said slowly, "This worries me, Mulder. It's starting to sound a little too... domestic. I noticed that you have two toothbrushes in the bathroom."

"I can't let him use mine. Intimacy is one thing--sharing toothbrushes is another. I wouldn't share a toothbrush with my mother."

"How much time are you spending with him, anyway?"

"None of your business."

"Mulder, I'm worried about you. Up until a few months ago I would have been perfectly cofident in saying that you LOATHED Alex Krycek. Now you're not only sleeping with him, you're stocking his favorite junk food."

Fox pushed food around on his plate, and his voice was sullen. "Well, you can quit worrying about me. I'm a big boy."

Dana's eyes narrowed. "I think the operative word here is 'boy'. You're not looking at this situation in a logical manner, Mulder. Maybe he LOOKS like he's changed, maybe he's treating you well--for now. But he's going to revert, and when he does..."

"You don't KNOW him, Scully." She was startled by the heat in his eyes when he raised them to her. "And you don't know ME. Christ, you're just like my father was--HE never thought I'd grown up, either. He had NO confidence in my ability to make my own choices."

"When those choices are so patently bad for you..." She trailed off. There was the sound of a key in a lock. The front door opened. Alex Krycek, looking rumpled and tired, but gorgeous (as usual) came in. He stopped abruptly when he saw Dana, then looked at Fox, and shut the door.

Alex tossed a small overnight case on the sofa, walked to the table, bent down, and kissed Mulder softly on the cheek. "Hey, babe."

"Hey. You're back early."

"Things wound up quicker than I expected."

"Am I going to read about this in the papers?"

"Not this time. Is there enough for me?"

"Sure. Sit down, I'll get you a plate."

Alex pulled out a chair and sat while Mulder got up and went into the kitchen. He exchanged flat looks with Dana, then said, "Agent Scully."

"Krycek."

There was silence as Fox got a plate and cutlery. "Alex, what do you want to drink?"

"Any of that Hawaiian Punch left?"

"One."

"That'd be great." His eyes hadn't left Scully. Too softly for Mulder to hear he said, "My ears are burning."

Just as softly Dana replied, "Too bad it isn't all of you."

Fox set his burden down before Alex, noting his lover's tight smile. He noted the frown on Scully's face and the pinched line between her eyebrows, then said, "God, you two haven't started already, have you? You know, I thought with Dad gone and Mom so vague..." his hand threaded quickly through Alex's dark hair, "and you seeming not to HAVE parents, that I'd avoid in-law problems. Scully, you and Skinner are even WORSE than in-laws."

Alex shrugged as he scrapeed the last of the moo goo gai pan onto his plate. "Don't let them bother you, Fox. You know how it is with some friends--they get jealous when you fall in love."

With her fair skin, it was hard for Dana to conceal her anger--she flushed to the roots of her auburn hair. She was obviously angry with Krycek, but it was Mulder she addressed. "You let him call you Fox? You HATE that."

"Not from me, he doesn't."

"Stop it, you two."

"Look, Mulder, I can see you being attracted to him. There is some sort of animal magnetism--even I have to admit that."

Alex broke an egg roll in half. "Gee, thanks for the compliment, Red."

"It's not a fucking compliment, Krycek. I'm just stating facts, and keep out of this--I'm talking to Mulder. Like I said, I can understand your wanting him physically, but can't you just have sex with him and leave it at that? I'm sure he's used to it."

Alex's expression didn't change, but Fox saw the flash in his green eyes. "Stop it, Scully."

"I'm serious, Mulder. I wouldn't think much of it if you just did a little rutting, but you're letting him into your LIFE. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? If you open up your heart, he could..."

"Austin." Dana and Fox both looked at Alex. He calmly dripped sweet-and-sour sauce on the second half of his egg roll and said, "Trinity."

Dana scowled. "What has Texas got to do with anything?"

Fox was nodding slowly. "Not Austin, Texas. Alfred Austin, right, Alex?" The younger man nodded. "Love's Trinity. Yes, you're right." Mulder looked at Dana. "How much poetry do you read?"

"What's that got to do with the price of eggs, Mulder?"

"Alfred Austin wrote a poem called Love's Trinity that might explain this to you a little better, Scully."

Scully sighed. "I'm not really a great one for that 'life imitates art' theory Mulder."

"But it explains why I can't JUST sleep with him."

Alex reached over and wound his fingers in Mulder's, holding hs hand. "And why I couldn't keep up that 'pure love from afar' crap. 'Soul, heart, and body, we thus singly name, are not in love divisible and distinct, but each with each inseparably link'd.' I used to be able to compartmentalize myself, Scully. I could keep my heart separated from what I did with my body, keep my soul separated from both. Not any more." He gave Mulder's hand a squeeze.

"And you can't really pick and choose what you give when it's real love, Scully. 'One is not honour, and the other shame.' That's how it is with me, anyway." Mulder drew Alex's hand up and pressed it to his cheek. "'One is not honour, and the other shame, but burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame. They do not love who give the body and keep the heart ungiven.'"

"'Nor they who yield the soul, and guard the body.'" Krycek brought his other hand up to cup Fox's face. Scully didn't want to admit it, but there was genuine tenderness in Krycek's expression--something she had never expected to see. "'Love doth give the whole'." He looked at Scully, and his eyes were deep, and sober. "'Love doth give the whole.' That's what we've done, Scully."

She was silent for a moment. There was a look on Mulder's face that she'd never seen before. It was unguarded--vulnerable. Trusting.

Mulder--trusting?

Good God.

She had thought he was being foolish, and headstrong. He never liked to admit that he'd made a mistake. But that wasn't it. He was... sure.

Mulder was watching her. He said quietly, "'Its range is high as heaven, as ocean deep, wide as the realms of air or planet's curving sweep.' It scares me a little sometimes, Scully, but I can't live without it. I can't live without HIM. Try to understand."

At last she said, "I'll try. I can't promise, though, Mulder."

"That's all we ask." Alex let go of Fox with a gentle push. "Eat, Fox. There's been enough discussion for now. Too much will spoil your appetite."

They all started to eat. Dana squeezed duck sauce out on her sweet-and-sour pork. "Do you two do this often?"

The two men exchanged looks. Alex raised an eyebrow. "Chinese?"

"Mulder, I never would have thought you'd fall in love with a smartass. Poetry. Do you two recite poetry to each other often?"

They both smiled, and Fox murmured, "You'd be surprised."

After a moment Dana said, "You were right, Fox."

"I'm glad you realize that, Scully."

"That's not what I meant." She pointed with her fork. "I mean about the Hawaiian Punch. Krycek, you have a moustache."

* * *

Title: I Find No Peace  
Author/pseudonym: Scribe  
Fandom: X Files  
Pairing: None  
Rating: R, for language  
Status: Finished  
Sequel/Series: The Poetic Series  
Archive: Yes, to any archive that receives this (RS, WWOMB, allslash, etc.)  
Feedback: Pretty please.  
E-mail address for feedback:   
Other websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver for Poetic Series (Mulder/Krycek) slash.  
Disclaimers: I do not own these characters orconcepts. This is written strictly for entertainment, and no profit has been made.  
Summary: Alex confronts Skinner about his hostility to his (Alex's) relationship with Mulder, and shows more insight than Skinner expected, or wants.

* * *

Find No Peace  
By Scribe

I Find No Peace  
Sir Thomas Wyatt

I find no peace, and all my war is done;  
I fear, and hope. I burn, and freeze like ice.  
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise.  
And naught I have, and all the world I seize on.  
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison,  
And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise;  
Nor letteth me live nor die at my devise,  
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.  
Without eyen [eyes] I see, and without tongue I plain;

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;  
I love another, and thus I hate myself;  
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh at all my pain.  
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life,  
And my delight is causer of this strife.

Skinner pushed his glasses up on his forehead, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It had been a long day--he was probably the last one in the J. Edgar Hoover building, except for the housekeeping crew. *Why do I do this to myself? I didn't have to stay over to finish this paperwork--it could have waited till tomorrow. I should have gone home hours ago.*

He knew why he had stayed--it had been a STRESSFUL day, too. He'd assigned Mulder and Scully to a field operation--one that required them to leave almost immediately. They had only about an hour to get packed for the trip and get on the road. When they'd left his office, he'd found that a vital list of contacts had somehow slipped out of the folder he'd given them. Their phone was busy, and he had been worried that they would leave before he could place another call, so he had decided to simply bring the paper down to the basement office. When he had opened the door only Fox was there, and he had been slumped in his chair, turned toward the back wall as he spoke on the phone.

"No, I won't be home for dinner. No. Look, I'm sorry, too. I was really looking forward to this weekend. Yeah. Scully will bring me by the apartment just long enough for me to throw a couple of things in a bag, and I DO mean throw. No time for neat packing. What? Alex, don't you DARE be waiting for me when I get there." He had chuckled, a rich sound that had given Skinner a sense of warmth. "No, I won't even have time for that, you pervert. You know, if the FBI had one of those sexual spying departments like the movies are always going on about, you would have been a star agent."

Alex Krycek. The warmth had seeped away, replaced by icy anger. "Mulder."

Mulder had flinched, turning so sharply that his long legs had gotten in the way, and he had banged his knee. "Damn! No, I'm okay." His voice had been suddenly strained. "Look, I have to go. Yeah. Me, too. What? Of course I do." He had paused, his eyes flicking to Skinner, then had said quietly, "Look, Alex, we'll talk about it later, okay? Bye." He had hung up. "Sir?"

"Personal calls on department time, Mulder?"

"You didn't say this assignment was hush-hush, sir. I had plans I needed to cancel."

"With Krycek?"

His eyes had hardened. "That isn't any of your business, sir. Did you have something to tell me?"

Skinner had gone over and laid the paper on his desk. "You dropped this. You'll need it." He had watched as Mulder folded the paper and tucked it in his jacket pocket. "Mulder, I don't want to pry into your private life..."

"Then don't."

Walter had had a lot of experience at concealing his emotions--he hadn't winced at Mulder's clipped tone. Instead he had scowled. "Try not to lose your cell phone this time."

The phone had begun ringing as he exited. After he had closed the door he stood there in the hall for a moment, listening. The doors in the basement were those flimsy, hollow core kind, and he had been able to hear Fox. "Mulder." His voice had softened. "Hey, babe. I didn't mean to cut you off like that. Hm? Yeah, Walter. I don't know, I guess he's having a hard time... Look, I TOLD him it was none of his business, okay? I'm fine, forget about it." There had been a pause. Skinner could almost hear the smile in Mulder's voice. "That's why I couldn't say it--because he was here. Okay, I owe you one, so I'll say it twice. I love you. I love you."

Skinner had turned and quickly gone back to the elevator.

He tried to forget the tenderness in those final words as he rolled his shoulders, muscles bunching and flowing under his plain white shirt. He jerked impatiently at his tie, loosening it, and thought, *Hell, I could have taken my shoes off. It isn't as if someone is going to come in here and catch me.* The universe proved it had a sense of irony by choosing that moment to have Alex Krycek walk into Skinner's office.

Walter jerked open his desk drawer and had his gun trained on Krycek before the younger man took his hand off the doorknob. Alex stood very still, a small smile playing across his lips, and said, "Being office bound hasn't slowed your reflexes."

"Stay still, Krycek. I don't want to shoot you unless I have to." He got up and went to the other man, patting him down carefully.

"Nice of you to care."

Walter didn't find any weapon. "It takes too damn long for housekeeping to scrub up blood. What do you want?"

"Right now? I want that fucking gun put away. I don't like having conversations while someone has a bead on me."

Walter waved Krycek over to the chair in front of his desk. As Alex sat, Skinner shut the door, then went to sit behind the desk, never lowering his weapon. "Give me a compelling reason why I should trust you enough to put this away."

Krycek's voice was matter-of-fact. "If I wanted you dead I would have just shot you as I came through the door. Better yet, I'd have picked you off when you walked to your car, taken your briefcase and wallet, and they would have called it a robbery/homicide. Do the math, Skinner. I don't want you dead--I want to talk to you."

Skinner considered him. Alex was dressed casually in boots, tight jeans, and a soft, black sweater. Against the dark colors, his skin was pale, and his eyes looked impossibly green. If Skinner hadn't known him for a pathologically devious sociopathic killer-for-hire he might have mistaken him for an ivy league grad student dressed to visit some upscale pub. Skinner laid the gun on the desktop, but he kept it within easy reach and he did not put the safety back on. "About what, Krycek? I've already told your handlers that I'm not interested in working for them."

His smile was cold. "They don't handle me as much as they think they do, and this is strictly personal. I want to talk to you about my boyfriend, and the shit you've been giving him."

Now Skinner did wince. *Boyfriend.*

Krycek, long trained to read the nuances of expression, caught it. "What's wrong, Skinner? Don't like boyfriend? What would you prefer--significant other, partner, main squeeze?" He smiled. "Lover?" Skinner's expression didn't change, but Alex saw the steely light in his eyes, and his smile broadened. "Oh, you don't like that one at ALL, do you? What's your problem? Even Red has eased off on the bitchiness level a little."

"Say what you have to say, Krycek."

The smile became a smirk. "Hardass all the way, eh, Skinner? All right. I want you to ease up on Mulder about our relationship."

"I haven't said anything to him about it. It's none of my business..." his voice was sour, "as he told me."

"Well, now, he wouldn't have had to tell you that if you hadn't been after him SOMEHOW, now would he? It isn't the first time, either. I've come over more than once after you've spoken to him and found him tighter and more charged up than a power line. He didn't want to talk about it, but I'm good on picking up hints. You've been harping at him about seeing me."

"You're dangerous, Krycek."

"I know that, asshole. Look, I'm breaking away from the Old Men--I've finally stashed away enough on them to guarantee that they won't be able to force me back into their plots. I'm going straight." This time the smile was ironic. "Mostly. You don't have to worry about me interfering in any precious Bureau interests. The only thing about the Bureau that I'm interested in now is Fox."

"Mulder is an agent under my supervision. I'm responsible for his welfare--if I see him walking into a dangerous situation, I'm obligated to call him on it."

"Bullshit." Alex's eyes narrowed. "Don't try to lay this off on professional duties, Skinman. This is personal, and you fucking well know it. Mulder isn't just an agent to you, same as he was never just a partner to me."

Walter felt cold. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know more than you might think. I've been through it, too, but I came through the other side. You ever heard of Tom Wyatt?"

Walter blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "Is he some sort of country-western singer?"

There was the faintest hint of condescention in Krycek's voice, and Walter had to force himself to resist the urge to hit him. "No, SIR Thomas Wyatt. He was a poet. He wrote a poem called 'I Find No Peace'. It's you, Walter."

"I'm not a poetic soul, Krycek. I deal with reality."

"The best poetry is a reflection of reality, and sometimes you run into one that states a situation perfectly. That poem could have been written about how you feel about Fox."

He could hear the strain in his own voice. "I'm worried about a friend throwing himself away, putting himself in danger..."

"'I find no peace, and all my war is done.' Bet you thought you were through with war when you left the jarheads, huh? But the hardest wars are fought inside, and you still haven't found any peace, have you? You thought that in the Bureau things would be safe--everything bound by rules, everything ordered. It would have to be peaceful, right? Then along came Fox Mulder, and you haven't had a moment's peace since then."

No, no peace. There was always SOMETHING going on with Fox--some new crusade that was likely to get him disgraced (if he was lucky), or killed. There was always some situation to be straightened out or covered up, some improbable tale to be believed or (more likely) dismissed. No, life was not peaceful with Fox around.

"'I fear, and hope.' I know that's how it was when I first met him. I wanted so badly for him to know how I felt about him, but I was nervous about how he'd react when he DID know." His voice became soft. "He never HAS figured it out about you, Walter."

"What are you implying?"

"'I burn, and freeze like ice. I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise.' He can do it all. He can make you feel like your bones are melting, then freeze you solid with his sarcasm. When he smiles, you soar--when he frowns, you sink."

"You're crazy. He's a friend and colleague--nothing more."

"'And naught I have, and all the world I seize on. That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison.' That's irritating for you, isn't it, Skinner? The fact that he isn't TRYING to seduce you, never has, and yet he has you. He doesn't want you, but he has you, anyway. 'And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise.' Fuck, Skinner, I don't blame you--he's almost inevitable."

He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk as he studied the older man. "How far has it gone with you? How deep?"

They stared at each other silently. Seconds ticked by. Alex searched Skinner's eyes, and his own gaze softened marginally. *Is that... pity?* Skinner thought. *God, I may have to shoot him after all.*

Alex's voice was quiet. "Oh, you have it bad. 'Nor letteth me live nor die at my devise, and yet of death it giveth me occasion.' I bet... I bet there's been at least one time that you've sat in the dark, holding that gun, and the reason you didn't use it was because you might see him the next day." Walter closed his eyes. "And you haven't said anything, and you never will. 'Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain. I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.' You hide it well, Skinner, but he's going to figure it out if you keep this up."

"You're wrong, Krycek."

"'I love another, and thus I hate myself.' You can't stand it. Marines don't desire other men. And if they do, they don't LOVE them, right?"

Alex stood, straightening. "'I feed me in sorrow, and laugh at all my pain.' It's eating you alive. 'Likewise displeaseth me both death and life.' Hard to tell which would be darker and emptier--death, or life without Fox. 'And my delight is causer of this strife.' It isn't his fault, Walter--he can't help it. He didn't make you love him on purpose. He isn't loving me just to torment you. Neither one of us can help this, either."

Alex walked toward the office door and opened it. He paused and looked back at the silent, still man. There was no hostility in his voice. "I understand, Skinner--really I do, but it has to stop. Let it go, Skinner. You can't have him, and you don't need to be so pissed with me, man. All I did was hold up a mirror for you."

Walter finally spoke. "Because he's yours?"

"No, because I'm his. I'm what he wants. Deal with it." He hesitated, then said, "We're a lot alike, Skinner." The older man snorted. "No, we are--but there's one major difference between us." He smiled softly. "I've found my peace."

The door closed. Skinner stared at it for a long time, then picked up the report he'd been working on. He stared at it for almost three minutes before realizing that he wasn't really seeing it. The paper slipped from his fingers, drifting lazily to the floor as Walter Skinner, eyes still slightly unfocused, slowly straightened his tie.

=====  
It's the same old story, everywhere I go. I get slandered, libeled--I hear words I never heard in the Bible. I'm just tryin' to keep my customers satisfied... (Paul Simon)

We do not stand on ceremony here. We lay down on it and suck it dry. (Brian Kelly)

The difference between men and women: A man looks at a woman, and he sees her undressed. A woman looks at a man, and she sees him BETTER dressed.

Shall we wait for an angel to pass? (Herbie, The Fearless Vampire Killers)

  
Archived: December 30, 2001 


End file.
